


Proof

by tubbyk



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2019-09-30 07:44:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17219801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tubbyk/pseuds/tubbyk
Summary: What if Porthos still had doubts about his worth after meeting his father? What if the return journey back to Paris didn't go so well?





	1. Misfortune of the Unworthy

D’Artagnan blinked and stared again at the ornate pistol. 

“Excuse me?”

“I said, would you mind taking on the task of cleaning my pistol?”

Checking Aramis’ expression for further clarification gave d’Artagnan no clues about what type of joke was being played on him, as the marksman was staring not at him nor the pistol, but at Porthos, who lay some distance away, stretched out under a tree, hat hiding his features, body still and tense. 

A hand reached over d’Artagnan’s shoulder and received the pistol. 

“Of course we’ll tend it for you. Now go and do what you have to do. We’ll camp here for the night then leave in the morning at your reckoning.”

Aramis walked off toward Porthos without a further word, and Athos dropped to sitting beside d’Artagnan, his features pained as he watched and waited to see how their evening would unfold. 

“I thought being given this task was a joke at first! Fancy him of all people asking someone else to tend to his weapons.” exclaimed d’Artagnan, then he frowned and carefully began cleaning the already immaculate pistol, looking up all the while to see how Porthos would react to the intrusion on his solitude. 

Athos sighed. “Alas, I’m afraid none of this is a joke.” He paused as he saw Aramis lie down beside Porthos, pose mimicking his friend initially before he shuffled sideways to lie shoulder touching shoulder. “These dealings with Porthos’ father are a sorry business and there is no simple way to fix his grievances. No medic can ease his pain, but Porthos may find some solace in a best friend, and nobody tries harder at that role than Aramis.”

“He’s certainly on his best behaviour.”

“Aramis? Well, yes, he can be incredibly attentive when he needs to be. And he knows Porthos better than anyone, so if he thinks there is a crisis, I trust his judgement.”

“When Porthos asked Aramis to ride away with him for a few days I didn’t know it was to go and find his father.”

Athos tilted his head in agreement at their combined ignorance. 

“When asked to go, you and I required more information: why, where, to see who, for what purpose? But Aramis simply donned his hat and went without any need to know more than that Porthos required and requested his company.” 

They sat for a long while, trying not to overtly watch their brothers, but watching carefully just the same. Every so often they could see Aramis speaking, sometimes turning his head to face Porthos, other times just lying still, copying Porthos’ pose. 

“Oh dear, we could have a problem.”

D’Artagnan nudged Athos and pointed to where Porthos was trying to get up, but Aramis had covered his chest with an arm and was clearly trying to urge him not to leave.

“Aramis has the reputation for having the ability to charm and bend any woman to his will,” murmured Athos, “Let us now see if Porthos can escape his thrall.”

“Thrall,” chuckled d’Artagnan, but he conceded the point to Athos with a tilt of his head when Porthos let himself be lowered back down then slowly enfolded in Aramis’ arms. And when Porthos finally fully relented to the comfort offered and buried his face in Aramis’ neck, the observing musketeers both found themselves smiling and - affording them some privacy - turned back to the task of cleaning weapons. 

 

\----------------------------

 

A drop of dew splashed onto d’Artagnan’s cheek, making him wake before he was duly ready. He frowned, tried to remember something, stretched, searched for the something again, pulled the blanket higher over his shoulders, then suddenly caught the elusive thought and sat up straight, throwing the blanket aside and stretching his neck to peer across the forest, only barely lit by the breaking dawn. 

The bundle of blankets across the clearing appeared at first as a single, large dark lump, but as d’Artagnan stared and accustomed his eyes to the low light he began to distinguish hands and feet and arms and two bodies entwined together, heads close under the tangled blankets. 

The body next to d’Artagnan stretched and groaned, long, rough and disgruntled. 

“Good morning,” grinned d’Artagnan. 

Athos opened one eye briefly, and made a noise of displeasure. 

“What on earth are you doing up this early?”

D’Artagnan nodded over to the tight bundle of musketeers. 

“Making sure all is right with the world.”

“Hmmphh. If either or both of them are naked I beg you to run me through with your sword before I can properly come to my senses.”

Chuckling, d’Artagnan lay back down and began to search around on the damp grass for his boots. 

“As long as they’re speaking I don’t care about their state of undress.”

As Athos sat up he cast a quick eye across the clearing and saw Aramis stir and roll away from Porthos as he began to wake from slumber. A large arm stretched over and around Aramis’ waist and pulled him back so their bodies lay flush and a small sleepy smile appeared on Aramis’ face as Porthos nuzzled into his neck and whispered something in his ear. 

Athos sighed and gave d’Artagnan a knowing look. 

“I do believe our little Spaniard’s persistence has paid off.”

“Good,” grinned d’Artagnan. “I don’t fancy another night sleeping rough and if we make good time we can be back in Paris by nightfall.”

 

\-----------------------------------

 

D’Artagnan was granted his wish and within the half hour the musketeers were already mounted and on the road back to Paris, Porthos saying little but smiling with a knowing tolerance as Aramis made up for his silence the previous day by being effusive and chatty from the moment he began to saddle up his horse. Now he was waffling on about the need to find a new feather for his hat as he felt that one with an orange shade might prove more attractive to the ladies of Paris this Spring. 

Afterwards, d’Artagnan attributed the happenings to pure bad luck. Athos initially felt it to be some kind of divine test, but on seeing Aramis’ reaction to his theory he adopted d’Artagnan’s theory and added that it had been a very shitty day. 

It all went wrong the moment the man ran out ahead of them, begging them to stop and help him. He babbled a jumble of words rather than complete sentences, but they all understood the gist of the problem. 

“Bandits! Guns! My wife. My daughter. Farmhouse! Quickly! _Help!”_

As they were riding off in the direction the farmer indicated, Athos announced loudly, “Porthos, we will follow your lead in this endeavour.”

D’Artagnan nodded, Aramis gave Athos a grateful look, and Porthos merely urged his horse on with a baritone cry, keen to be proactive to wipe away the dealings with his father. 

The farmhouse looked innocuous as they crept forward, having left their horses on the edge of the forest with the highly excitable farmer. Porthos despatched Aramis and Athos to take the rear of the house while he edged forward cautiously with d’Artagnan, pistols and swords raised and ready. There were no signs of any bandits, nobody appeared to be guarding the windows, and there were no visible musket barrels protruding from anywhere inside. 

Having made it to the front door without incident, Porthos checked the state of its hinges. He grinned at d’Artagnan. The old metal brackets and rotting wood weren’t going to be able to withstand what he had in store for them. 

Knowing his fellow musketeers were waiting for a sign – a very loud, dramatic, door-shattering sign – Porthos took a long step back then charged, hurling the full weight of his body at the poor door. As it exploded in and slammed down onto the stone floor the wood split and splintered, but Porthos made to barge forward, ready and determined. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bandit move, seemingly also not bothered by the noise or mess of the door. Porthos raised his pistol and went to fire and it was then that he saw it. Saw them. First, an arm. A ladies arm. Outstretched from under the remains of the door, her fingers splayed, but no longer moving. And lower down, closest to him under the detritus and bulk of the wood, was another forearm, the fingers on this hand small and pale and delicate, once clenched but now relaxed and devoid of life. 

Aghast, Porthos froze. He knew he should move. He knew that whatever advantage he had over the bandit facing him was now gone, but fear of this terrible realisation froze him and he could do nothing except stare at the tiny fingers in front of his feet. 

“Porthos!” 

As a body hurtled into him, Porthos heard the shot. He expected to feel the ball of lead breaching his skin, his muscle, possibly a bone or an organ. The minute second as one waited to feel the true damage of the impact, to understand - as one who had experienced it many times before – the severity of the wound and whether life would soon seep out with one’s own blood. 

But as he hit the hard ground with an _'oof'_ , the body on top of him screamed and jack-knifed, groaned and went limp and Porthos realised that the pistol aimed at him had fired and hit d’Artagnan instead. 

Porthos tried to say something but all that came out was a hoarse grunt. He half-pushed, half-lifted d’Artagnan’s body off him, desperately searching for the wound as he did. A cry from inside the back door made him look up and he saw three men rushing at Athos, two jumping out and grabbing his arms from behind as he charged in the door and the other slamming a large fist into his stomach, then again and again onto his unprotected jaw. A nasty jagged knife was raised and Porthos finally found his voice and shouted a warning as the man shifted forward to slice viciously at Athos’ throat. 

Aramis leapt into the fray and shot the man’s arm as the blade came down, then followed through with his sword, intending to finish him off. But the two who had been holding Athos dropped his limp form to the floor then turned their attentions to this new attacker. 

It may have been a fair fight were it not for a fourth man – the one who initially shot at Porthos – who had now emerged from the shadows, pistol reloaded, sneering in silent delight as he took his time aiming directly at Aramis’ head. 

Bewildered by all the events unfolding in front of him, Porthos bellowed with outrage as he launched himself through the broken doorway and straight at the gunman. 

This time, he not only heard the firing of the pistol, but he saw the flash even as he knocked away the arm. It was wondrous how little noise Aramis made as the ball entered his flesh. His head rocked back and he made a small groan as he collapsed to the floor. 

Faced with three fully fit attackers plus the one with the wounded arm, Porthos looked around at the dire state of his friends. All three were unconscious at best, Aramis and d’Artagnan likely dead. 

The thugs took their time. This last one was big, but they’d had a very good morning, taking out three musketeers and only losing of their own to injury. Confidence was high and they allowed themselves time to gloat and see how this dark giant would respond to the sight of his comrades dead or very soon to be slain. 

Porthos looked at all his friends in turn, saw the blood and carnage, turned side on and felt his belly clench as he saw the tiny hand clutching at nothing. 

A decision was made. If this was how it was going to end for his friends, for Aramis who held his heart more deeply than anyone - for that little girl - dead by his making - it was how everything was going to end for him too.

Porthos turned to the men and charged forward with a roar of outraged grief.


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From better to worse.

Even the King at his most childish and irrational hadn’t provided Treville with a more stressful few days.

Doling out orders, going head to head with a countering authority, even slicing his way through a regiment of Spanish soldiers – none of that taxed him as this did. 

He poured a little water on a fresh cloth and began to sooth the brow. It had to be done, but it was risky because if Aramis woke, all he wanted to know was ….

“Porthos?” 

Treville didn’t bother to answer this time either. He held Aramis’ wrists to stop him from thrashing, although really, the strength required to do that at the moment was minimal. 

“Porthos?”

Aramis managed to focus on him for a second, didn’t appear to like what – or who – he saw, then his eyes rolled back and he slipped back into his feverish slumber with a groan. 

Now it was safe to cool him with the wet cloth, and Treville did so, unconcerned about the droplets sliding down onto the bedclothes. 

At first, Aramis hadn’t asked about Porthos. Not much, anyway. It was Athos he asked for, replaying and reliving their fight over and over again and trying every time to stop the man from slashing Athos’ throat. In the end, Treville had to help Athos rise from his bed and sit by Aramis’ side for long enough for him to be seen and acknowledged to stop him being asked after.

Of course, if Aramis had known about the severity of d’Artagnan’s condition he may have made him his main concern, but apparently he hadn’t been privy to the moment when the young Gascon was shot.

So now it was Porthos who he called for, with increasing desperation as he fought to recover, fought any of the physicians who tended to him, fought Treville every time he remained silent when asked about Porthos. 

And it was Porthos he wanted, needed … _desired._

Treville wasn’t stupid. He’d been around a long time. He knew how some men could turn their fancy during long stints on battlefields with only their brothers for company. 

It wasn’t common. It wasn’t spoken about. It was a hanging offence if the wrong people knew about it. But still, Treville knew. And he also knew that this was much more than a trite, lustful dalliance. He saw them – Porthos and Aramis – together, sharing a look, a private communication that spoke of way more than any subtle nuances of musketeering. He saw Aramis disappear into his room at night, and Porthos into his own. But some early mornings, if he’d toiled through the night on plans and plots, sitting alone to get some peace to think, sometimes then, before the roosters crowed and the first rays of dawn broke through, he’d sit out on the balcony, considering the merits of sleep, and he’d see one or the other emerge not from their own room. 

It made him worried. It made him smile at the secret that wasn't. And it made him shake his head that he’d witnessed a sign of their indiscretion. If he did, so others might. 

Once, just once, he’d seen them kissing. Staggering in at 3am, drunk, supporting each other up, dragging each other down, giggling and guffawing like a pair of loons. And then there was Porthos, usually the more cautious of the two, dragging Aramis aside behind the hay cart and they kissed each other as if it were the first and last time they would ever have the chance to seek the other’s lips.

Such passion deserved a reprimand. Such a terrible, incautious, public indiscretion deserved something worse. And yet, Treville could only roll his eyes and blush as he turned away and tried to recall the passionate hazards of his own youth. 

They deserved the happiness that they found in each other, so rare for any two people to find under any circumstances. It could end any moment, in any number of ways, so who was he to deny them this?

He sighed and adjusted the blanket over Aramis’ chest. 

It wasn’t right for him to be doing this job. Another man should be here offering words of comfort and encouragement in low, rumbling tones. When Aramis reached out for a hand to hold when the pain became too much, fingers of darker skin should be there to meet him. 

As it was, Porthos had sat beside Aramis only once – the night after his return to the garrison, to make sure he was going to live. He'd arrived back, sombrely guiding the wagon into the yard, mood low as if he carried only bodies for carrion. They’d all thought the worst, then Lalec dared to look in the back of the cart and cried out as a weary hand up and waved a greeting. 

It was Athos, the only one lucid, but able to confirm that the brothers who lay bloodied and unmoving beside him were still alive. 

Porthos didn't speak but helped carry each of his brothers to their quarters while the physicians were summoned. Even when rounded upon by Treville, Porthos merely shook his head and turned away, merely muttering that he couldn’t - and wouldn’t - talk about it. Ultimately, it was Athos who told the story of their misadventure in the farmhouse, piecing together what he remembered with what little Porthos had told him on the return journey. 

“A rescue gone wrong,” sighed Treville. 

“Very, very wrong, especially if you’re looking at it from Porthos’ point of view.”

Treville grimaced and leaned in. 

“How is he, really?”

“You know him well enough,” sighed Athos, “He’s devastated and blames himself for everything.”

“Everyone will recover. Aramis was lucky. The bullet grazed his head and despite all the blood the physician seems to think he must have hit his head hard when he fell and that’s what has kept him incapacitated for so long.”

“He’s lucky Porthos deflected the shot.”

“Porthos doesn’t see it like that. All he knows is that his best friend is lying silent and pale with part of his head shaved and bandaged, all because of his doing.”

“How does my Gascon fare?”

“d’Artagnan is young and fit.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“He’s struggling but he’ll make it. The ball didn’t hit any organs but it did enough damage to require him to stay off duties for some time to come.”

He was pushing Porthos out of the way when he took that bullet.”

“I know. As does Porthos. Yet another burden for him to bear.”

“Where is he now?”

“I haven’t seen him for three days. Don’t know where he’s holed up. He visited the physician last night though, I know that much. Accosted him outside his house, demanding to know the condition of you lot.”

“Has he not even been to see Aramis?”

“Not after that first night, and Aramis is beginning to be more lucid and it’s Porthos who he wants to see more than anyone, of course. I’ll have an almighty fight on my hands if Porthos doesn’t appear soon.”

“I’ll find him.”

“Not any day soon you won’t. Your ribs aren’t going to let you ride for a good few weeks and the physician seems to think your cheekbone is broken.”

“We have to do something. I hate that Porthos has removed himself from the garrison. He has to realise that after we were all injured it was he alone who took down the three remaining attackers. If he’d not done that they’d have finished us all off..”

“Just give him time. Maybe a break away will do him good.”

“Or it will give the feelings of guilt time to fester and make things worse.”

They both knew that was true and sat in silence, pondering the mess. 

Then Athos looked up and tapped Treville on the arm.

“There may be one thing you can do. At the farmhouse, after he knocked the door in, Porthos found the bodies of the farmer’s wife as well as his daughter in the wreckage. Porthos believes he killed them when he burst in but I’m unconvinced. If you wish to do anything to help then please send someone back there to speak to the farmer. It doesn’t make sense to me for them to have both been standing there just as Porthos burst in. We need to establish what happened in that house before we arrived.”

“Good. Consider it done. Anything we can find to assuage his guilt will help.”

 

\--------------------------------

 

A day later it was impossible to deflect questions about Porthos when Aramis asked. Injured he might still be, but now those dark, insightful eyes missed nothing and Treville could no longer hide the fact that Porthos was steering clear of the garrison and all those who he felt he’d let down. 

“Let him take time out to come to terms with it all,” advised Athos.

“He’ll be back when he’s ready,” counselled Treville. 

Aramis didn’t accept either of those assurances of course and despite the physician and Treville’s orders, he slipped out of bed and the garrison early the next morning to go in search of his friend. 

The fact that Aramis had to be ignominiously carried back to the garrison by some bystanders when his strength and his legs gave way in the afternoon didn’t stop him from conducting a similar search the next day and the next day after that and every day since. 

Now, two weeks later, Athos was back to paperwork duties at the garrison and Aramis also was recovered from his injury and concussion, even though he was clearly tired and very anxious about Porthos and searched for him daily along with anyone else who could be spared.

Only d’Artagnan remained confined to bed, but he was looking and sounding better, despite being weak and unable to yet walk far. 

So it was that when a rider came in late one evening and delivered a parcel to Treville, he gathered the friends together around d’Artagnan’s bed before revealing its contents. 

“He’s gone.”

Everyone, including the Captain, who stood, sombre and grave, imparting the news, looked at Aramis for his reaction.

“Porthos is gone,” Treville clarified. 

Aramis said nothing, just blinked rapidly and continued frowning at his Captain.

Athos dipped his head and slowly released a long-held puff of air through his teeth, making d’Artagnan wince and lick his lips nervously.

“When you say Porthos has gone …” d’Artagnan ventured gamely, flicking his gaze between Treville and Aramis equally. 

The crease in Aramis’ brow deepened as he turned his head and fixed the young musketeer with the same expression of angry puzzlement he’d held since Treville first began to speak. 

“Aramis,” began Treville, putting a hand on his shoulder, but it was shrugged off as Aramis took a step back and planted his hands on his hips. 

“Do we know where Porthos has gone exactly?” d’Artagnan asked.

Treville merely shook his head grimly then reached over his desk and lifted a large, well-worn but ornate pauldron from under a cloth. He ran his fingers over the marks made in battle as well as the ones made purely for aesthetics then held it out for them all to see. 

He may well have been handing over a poisonous asp for the look Aramis gave him and the way he recoiled from it and retreated further back in horror. 

“No! He wouldn’t!” cried d’Artagnan. 

“I can’t believe that Porthos would leave us,” agreed Athos, his voice thick with emotion. 

“There must be foul play afoot,” d’Artagnan decided. “We must find Porthos before he is hurt.”

“There is no foul play.” Treville exhaled and lay the pauldron back on the desk. “It came with a note and I know it to be true to Porthos’ hand.”

He handed a thick piece of parchment to Athos, who tilted it to the lantern light for everyone to read. 

_‘Captain, I thank you for the years you have allowed me to serve as a musketeer but I must return my pauldron to you now by way of resigning my commission. Yours Respectfully, Porthos.’_

“That’s outrageous!” exclaimed d’Artagnan. 

“We must look for him.”

“What do you think I’ve had the regiment doing this past week and a half?” Softening his tone, Treville added, “Any spare men and a few I couldn’t spare scoured Paris, then scoured it again. Every ale house, every brothel, even the Court of Miracles has heard nothing, and I believe them when they say that. Every day we've looked for him, with increasing urgency, and now this tells me why we haven't been able to find him.”

“So where could he be?”

“Nowhere in Paris is about as far as I can narrow it down.”

In the silence that followed they all looked at the one person who was yet to comment. 

Aramis was still staring at the pauldron, his face pale with disbelief. 

“Aramis ….” 

But the moment Athos reached out to put a consoling hand on his shoulder, Aramis flinched back, looked at each of them in turn, then spun and marched out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind him. 

“Don’t,” advised Athos as d’Artagnan made a desperate noise and tried to rise from his bed.

“We need to comfort him.”

“What he needs is not here and no words or companionship coming from us will sooth him today or any day until Porthos is found.”

“But I don’t understand. How could Porthos leave us? He was upset about his father, certainly, but now that situation has been resolved...?”

“All that was resolved was that a very proud man suddenly found reason to doubt his worth. Porthos believes that he was not chosen by merit to be a musketeer and he remains resistant to all assurances to the contrary. The episode at the farmhouse just reinforced his unfortunate conclusion.”

“That’s ridiculous. Porthos is more worthy than any of us to wear a pauldron, or to lead men into battle. Who else could have taken on all the men in the farmhouse alone and won? He is the best fighter of us all.”

“As absurd as it seems, he does not believe that to be so.”

Athos picked his hat up off the end of the bed. “I’ll go after Aramis.”

Treville shook his head. 

“No, you should heed the advice you just gave to d’Artagnan. Leave him be for now. It’s late and in the morning we’ll look at this and try to work out a plan to find Porthos. I already have someone trying to find the rider who delivered Porthos’ note and pauldron. It may be a useless task but we have to try, for Porthos’ sake.”

Athos nodded in agreement and threw his hat back down. “Not just for Porthos’ sake, for Aramis’ too.”

“In the morning then,” said Treville. “Athos, I’ll see you in my office at sunrise.”

 

\-----------------------------

 

Sunrise came and Athos knocked on Treville’s door then entered without waiting for a response. 

The Captain was there, hunched over his desk. He looked even more tired than the night before. 

“Sleep eluded me too,” said Athos. “But I am determined that we will find Porthos, no matter how weary we are.”

Treville straightened and exhaled loudly, then pushed two objects across the desk.

“The situation has become slightly more complicated overnight it seems.”

There lay Porthos’ pauldron, to the left, and to the right lay a smaller, even more ornate pauldron. 

Treville pointed to the second one.

“It was here on my desk when I arrived ten minutes ago. He didn’t bother to leave a note. I think we both know he won't return until he's found who he's looking for.”

“Aramis! No!”

Athos looked at Treville, dumbfounded, as the Captain stacked the two pauldrons together then braced himself on the table, staring up at Athos. 

“It seems we now have double the amount of errant musketeers to track down and retrieve.”


	3. Jonas

“That little runt put up quite a good fight.”

“Nah, he nearly pissed himself when he saw the size o’ Jonas.”

“Thought the English one would fare better.”

“Ppfffftttttt. Since when can they put up any sort o’ contest?”

“Exactly. Didn’t even deserve to get through the first round of fights, that one.”

“That monster from Montpelier though, he gave us a good run there at the end.”

“Hey Jonas, was ya worried when he pulled that blade out o’ the dirt?”

“Yeah, we thought for sure ya was a goner. Sneaky geezer, hiding it there, although it was within the rules.”

“Not for long. I’m gonna change ‘em so our champ doesn’t get a nasty surprise again. No burying weapons in the dirt. Ya like that rule, Jonas?”

The three men cackled and all looked over to the bench where the big man sat. 

Porthos ignored them and kept on bandaging his arm, slowly winding the material around and around his bicep, still angry with himself for not anticipating the introduction of a knife, even though in theory it was within the rules.

“We better find ya some proper competition or ya gonna get bored ‘ere.”

The small ugly one with the grating laugh snorted and shook his head.

“Nah, this one would ‘ave gone by now if he ‘ad anywhere to go. We got us a stayer.”

“Shut up and get ‘im some ale,” said the older man, the boss, the quietest and most bearable of the three, less likely to drop his letters, better spoken, but still detestable. 

“Ale? Seven months ‘e’s been ‘ere and ya still don’t know that he craves wine after a win?”

“Just get it,” came the order and it was the third one, a big gnarled lump of a man, who brought the bottle over to Porthos. 

As usual, he deposited the bottle plus a large thick, weighty glass beside Porthos on the table, in amongst the food remnants, bandages, salves and rough cloths stained with a disappointingly large amount of Porthos’ blood. 

Porthos continued ignoring them until he had seen to all the split flesh and cuts on his body, then he reached out and grabbed the wine bottle by the neck and took a long, thirsty swig. 

The men all cheered and cackled as he replaced the bottle on the table.

“See? Told ya one day he’d stop bein’ posh and just drink it straight from the bottle.”

“Hey Jonas, might we stop bringin’ a glass with yer wine for yer next big fight?”

Porthos pushed back the bench and rose, flexing his massive shoulders and fixing the men with a displeased glower. 

“Piss off,” he growled. He’d rationed himself only two words to utter to them and he felt very pleased with the ones he’d chosen. 

The men did as he bade them, quickly, as always, still cackling and muttering, as was their irritating way. Only the older man paused by the bench, reaching thin, gnarly fingers inside his coat then dropping a soft pouch onto the table, peering up at Porthos as it hit the wood with a loud clunk, demonstrating the weight of the contents within. 

“Biggest purse yet. They’re comin’ from far and wide to see ya now,” rattled the old man, his piercing grey eyes still fierce, defying age and missing nothing. He tapped the bench, which was his way of demanding Porthos’ attention when the silence and disregard needed to be overcome.

“Word of warnin’, son. Give yerself any name ya like, but yer gettin’ a reputation and that’s a dangerous thing for someone to ‘ave when they’re tryin’ to hide.”

Porthos kept his expression deadpan and stony and put the pouch in his pocket.

The old man shrugged and left, shaking his head as the door clattered behind him. 

As Porthos lowered the large bar over the door to comprehensively shut out the world from his lodgings behind the fight arena he let out a long sigh and leaned against it, letting what little was left of his fingernails scratch slowly down the old wooden door. 

Another day gone. Fed, watered, fought, won, paid, survived. Not a satisfying mantra but one he ran through every day to keep himself sane. 

He trudged slowly back over to the old table, swiping the bottle off the bench for another gulp, then looked around to see if they’d left any extras. He spied two more bottles by the hearth, emptied the one in his hand, grabbed a new one and pulled the cork out as he sank back into the couch. 

He shouldn’t. 

He knew he shouldn’t. 

Drinking led to melancholy which led to memories and an ache in his heart that brought him down lower than any prize fighter could ever do. 

Porthos swigged the new bottle and groaned as he lay back and let the dark, red liquid settle and begin to tease his senses. 

His arm began to ache. Bandaging it himself with one hand wasn’t really satisfactory but still preferable to letting anyone else here do it for him, as he’d quickly learned from experience early on. 

He let himself imagine other hands, firm and tender, cleaning and wrapping his skin with such care and love that it almost made him weep. 

The ache in his arm was nothing compared to the ache in his heart, but to have stayed in Paris would have meant bringing down all his friends. It had been shown that he wasn’t good enough, had stolen someone’s rightful place as a musketeer all because of a Captain’s guilt. Aramis deserved someone better, more worthy of his love and companionship. Someone who wouldn’t endanger his friend’s lives because they weren’t able to anticipate threats. 

Porthos kept his eyes closed. If he opened them they would only fill with tears. But the tears came regardless and he wept for his friends, his lover, for the pride that had once swelled his chest when he donned his uniform, which he would feel again no more. 

He knew he shouldn’t, but as he downed another bottle he knew now why Athos found both solace and pain in this rich poison. 

In oblivion, he disappeared past hurt and into blackness where melancholy thoughts faded away because this was a place where he sometimes needed to be when the pain of loss cut too deeply. 

 

\------------------------------

 

“Oi, he’s been at the bottle again.”

“Thought he might. Had that look in his eyes last night.”

“Shift ‘im over to the bed.”

“You bloody shift him over to the bed!”

“Fine. Leave him there. Then you can explain to the boss why he lost the fight ‘cos he put ‘is back out from sleepin’ on the couch.”

“He ain’t gonna lose any time soon. Best champion we’ve ‘ad in ages.”

“Which is why we gotta look after ‘im. ‘Ere, get his legs, I’ll carry this end.”

“ _Ooof!_ Christ, it’s like liftin’ a bull. God, I hate these nights when he drinks. It always ‘as to be us who gets ‘im to bed.”

“Be thankful ‘e doesn’t do it often.”

“Often enough. Ow, me back!”

“Good thing is, he’ll be chock full o’ hate for himself by the time ‘e sobers up and by Saturday night he’ll be murderous. Always brings out the beast in ‘im.”

“I tell ya, ‘e’s too good for ‘ere. One day ‘e’ll realise that and up an’ leave.”

“Rubbish. Boss says ‘e’s only ‘ere ‘cos ‘e’s runnin’ away from a better life what ‘e ain’t able to go back to. An’ why wouldn’t ‘e stay ‘ere? Look what ‘e’s got! Decent lodgings, good food, drink, women if ‘e ever decides ‘e wants ‘em, more people comin’ each week from far an’ wide to cheer ‘im on, chumps like us waitin’ on ‘im an’ carryin’ ‘im to bed an’ still the boss gives ‘im a purse each week. Why on earth would he want to leave?”

“We’ll see. There’s always someone new comin’ along with more fire in their belly than the current one on top and when our Jonas does get beat ‘e’ll be replaced in a heartbeat by the next one an’ you an’ me’ll start all over again, workin’ out what the new one likes to eat an’ drink an’ fuck. Be thankful we got ourselves a silent one 'ere. Much prefer the sulky ones to the ones who won't shut up and 'ave our ear all the time. Anyway, when the fightin’ starts again tomorrow we’ll soon know if any o’ them deserve to take on our Jonas on Saturday night.”

 

\-----------------------

 

“Whaddya find in the rounds? Anyone we know?”

“Coupla local tossers, tryin’ their luck and not findin’ any, as usual. Few more down from Lyon. Reckon they’re breedin’ ‘em ‘specially for us ‘cos quite a few ‘o’ them are lookin’ promisin’.”

“Any takers from outside?”

“One they just call the Monolith. Now ‘e’ll put up a good fight. Twice the size of Jonas here and with fists bigger ‘n your stomach. Can’t move fast, but doesn’t seem to need to most o’ the time. Just reaches out, picks ‘em up and squeezes them till they pop.”

They both cackled at the imagery.

“Anyone else?”

“Usual lot from out o’ town; meaty thug from Florence, two off a ship from Portugal. Can’t speak French any of ‘em but seem to know how to fight. Strange wild thing who walked in yesterday. Don’t look like no fighter- too slim - but ‘e’s got them mean eyes the boss always talks up an’ he goes in dirty an’ hard. Quick too.”

Porthos had given up listening closely to the descriptions long ago. Initially he’d hung on every word, searching for insight into his potential opponents, but now he knew better. He didn’t need to listen to idle chat. No, he may not be worthy of wearing a musketeer’s uniform, but he knew how to sum up an opponent in an instant, work out their fighting style, and how to adapt his own style to take them down. Most were scrappers, trying their luck, eyes on the purse they so desperately needed. They usually fell in the first round, with the occasional one making it through and delighting in a purse that would usually be emptied by drink or a madam before the night was out. 

The old man came in, killing the chatter with a cold stare and merely nodding at Porthos as he brought in his food and drink on a tray. This was the business end of the week and although he could cackle and chatter rubbish along with the other two after his champion had fought and won, in the days leading up to it, with the fighting rounds in progress, the old man kept his emotions tight and watched the proceedings with a tense fervour. 

He walked over to his cohorts, nodding behind him in the direction of Porthos. 

“’How is he?”

“Pissed off. Got blindin’ drunk an’ it’s taken ‘im two days to shake off the ‘angover.”

“Good, he’s better when he’s angry with himself.”

“’E’ll be bloody brilliant on Saturday, then, ‘cos he’s in a savage mood.”

“Did ya see the fights, boss?”

“Most.”

“Who d’ya think are the main contenders?”

“The Monolith will test Jonas, I’m sure.”

“Can ‘e beat ‘im?”

The old man smiled. 

“He’s bigger in size, an’ he’s skilled, but I keep tellin’ ya, it’s the anger inside wot makes the difference. That feral drive is the thing in an even fight that tips a champion to victory.”

“Anyone else ‘ave a chance?”

“The Monolith will win his draw. On the other side, I like the look of the red-haired one from Lyon. He’s short, but has strength in those arms. Nearly as wide as he is tall.”

“What ‘bout the Italian?”

“Nah, he might make it past the next round but after that I’m not sure if he has the focus. Good fighter but makes stupid decisions. Can’t pick his moments well enough.”

“What about Mean Eyes?”

“Who?”

“Little Spanish one. Whipped his big opponent with his own glove then kneed him in the crown jewels and floored ‘im.”

“Ah, him. Everyone’s writing him off for bein’ too slight, but he’s sharp. Clever fighters make up for the lack of size with their decisions.”

“You sayin’ he could beat Monolith to fight Jonas?”

This time the old man laughed.

“That would be something astonishing to see.”

“Mean Eyes’ll probably shit ‘is pants when he sees the size of ‘im.”

“We’ll soon find out. Got two more nights then we’ll ‘ave our contender.”

They all made to leave, nodding at Porthos on the way out. 

“Rest up, champ,” said the old man. “And try to avoid the wine. I like the fire it puts in your belly, but not the weight it lays on yer soul.”

 

\----------------------------

 

There was laughter and guffawing as the men returned the next night. They greeted Porthos by his alias and gathered around his table, eager to inform him of his potential opponents now the big fight was nearing. 

“Ya shoulda seen the Monolith, Jonas. Slaughtered all three opponents with none lasting more than a few minutes.”

“’E’s gonna test ya, that’s for sure.”

Porthos didn’t even bother to look up. He’d heard it all before. 

“But ‘ere’s the best bit. Guess who ‘e’s gonna fight tomorrow?”

They all paused to see if Porthos would bite, but he ignored them all and kept on applying salve to a cut on his shin that he’d collected in training that morning. 

“The Monolith is gonna fight Mean Eyes! The scrawny little Spaniard.”

“Even I lost money on that one. Was sure that beast from Lyon would take ‘im but with every fight Mean Eyes got the upper hand and when he took off his belt and strangled ‘im at the end till he blacked out there I thought the boss was gonna cry.”

“You can’t take a weapon into the arena but you can use what you can find in there. But we’re making sure nobody buries any knives again. Don’t want anyone else to pull a sneaky move on you like that one, do we Jonas? But using 'is belt was smart. Our friend from Lyon didn’t expect it. The only shame now is that tomorrow night’s fight will barely last a minute. He’s good, that Spaniard, even surprised me with 'is moves and strength, but tomorrow’s contest will be like a rat takin’ on a bear.”

The others laughed. Porthos couldn’t even feign a slight interest. In a week’s time it would be his birthday and the event – or lack thereof this year – was keeping his spirits even lower than normal. It was only the chance to channel his dark mood via a fist into someone’s belly that kept him looking to the next day and the day after that. 

 

\------------------------------

 

Such was the atmosphere the next night after the fight to settle the challenger that Porthos found himself looking up and asking, “So, what happened?” as the men walked in, loud with hilarity and the recounting of the night’s events. 

“Yer not gonna believe us, even if we tell ya.”

“Fine,” shrugged Porthos, turning away. 

“’He won!!” squawked Lump. 

“’E’s talkin’ ‘bout Mean Eyes!” whooped Ugly.

“The Spaniard,” confirmed the old man with a wry smile. 

“He beat the Monolith?” That was four more words than Porthos had intended to utter, but even he couldn’t hide his surprise. 

“Ya shoulda seen him. Monolith had him in a headlock and we thought he was gone for sure, especially when he lifted Mean Eyes up and slammed him into the beams above the arena. He hit ‘em so hard that one beam smashed and bits of it fell to the ground. Monolith thought ‘e’d won, didn’t ‘e, but he was slow gettin’ up and he was grinnin’, thinkin’ he’d be takin' you on next, when the jammy little shit of a Spaniard picked up a large bit of the broken beam and dirty as you like, swung it full strength around and landed it full in Monolith’s face.”

“Don’t think ‘e’ll be chewin’ down hard on anything any time soon.”

Ugly laughed then nodded at Porthos. 

“Ya don’t seem worried, champ?”

Porthos huffed and shook his head, determined not to speak again. 

“Just make sure Mean Eyes hasn’t buried any knives in the dirt,” said Lumpy. "He fights filthy, that one."

“I explained the new rules to him before last night's fight,” the old man clarified. 

“Did he understand what you said?”

“I dunno, he listened then just walked away. Didn’t say nuthin’.”

“Maybe he doesn’t speak French?”

“Maybe he doesn’t speak at all?”

“He speaks and he speaks French,” confirmed the old man. 

They all looked at him in surprise. 

“Ya got ‘im to speak?”

“He spoke of ‘is own accord. Came up after he won the fight tonight. Thought he was gonna collect his purse but he just stood there an’ asked me direct what we do with the champion if he gets beat.” 

Now they all looked at Porthos again. 

“Told ‘im an ex-champion is never any use to us and he gets turfed out on the street. Then Mean Eyes smiled, teeth covered in blood, first time I ever seen him smile, changed his looks completely, it did, an’ then he just up an’ walked off. Didn’t even take his winnings!” 

The old man shook his coat pocket and it jangled, making them all raise their eyebrows in surprise. 

He stared at Porthos then tapped his finger on the table in front of him to keep his attention. 

“Ya gotta watch yerself tomorrow. This one ain’t motivated by coin. I dunno what does put fire in his belly but whatever it is, it’s equal to a tonne o’ bulk and muscle.” 

 

\---------------------------------

 

The day of the big fight always picked up Porthos’ mood. Beating up his training partners wasn’t nearly as satisfying as beating up a proper contender. The more his opponent was built up as a genuine chance to take his title, the more he felt the thrill of anticipation at the chance of a good fight. 

That the Monolith wasn’t his challenger disappointed him, really. As much as he claimed not to listen to the chatter, he still managed to build up a picture of him as the main contender and had already painted a picture in his mind of what that particular beast would look like broken into pieces on the dirt. 

Standing in the darkness, awaiting the call and the cheers and din when his name was announced, always set a small thrill through him. He had to get those wherever he could now, so it was a small moment of adulation that he was willing to hold his head high for. 

The old man was still considering the title for the challenger when he hobbled out to introduce the fighters. Ugly and Lumpy had each chosen a term and it was Ugly who won when _‘The Spaniard’_ was announced to a mixture of cheers and jeers. That there were both wasn’t surprising. Bets had been made both for Porthos’ success and his failure, after all. 

_“Joooonnnaaasssss!!”_ came the cry, drowned out by noise even before the last letters were enunciated. 

Porthos shook out his body and flexed, his torso bare today so as not to give this particular challenger a shirt or collar to hold on to. He strode out, pumping his fists, exciting the crowd, adrenalin, anger and excitement all raised to the levels required for him to do this. 

He looked up then stopped dead and stared, mouth open and lax, his heart suddenly galloping at a terrible pace. 

There was his challenger, exactly as described: looking more Spanish than French, frame wiry, not bulky, but a whip-smart appearance, alert, tense. wild and oh, so ready.

And those eyes. Those terribly familiar dark eyes. They did indeed look mean tonight. Mean and hard and aggressive. 

The man sucked in a sharp breath then sneered and enunciated sourly, “Hello, _Jonas_.”

Porthos’ legs nearly gave way. 

“Aramis!”


	4. Checkmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the fight before …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life and work got completely in the way in January, and when I found time to write again I had a hell of a time trying to get our boys to stay in character. Hoping this reads okay. It's very difficult to make Porthos and Aramis have a genuine fight. Thanks for your patience.

_The din from the crowd, the jeering and cat-calls and hollering from the men standing twenty-deep and straining to push forward, it all faded away in a second until all Porthos could hear was the increasingly rapid beat of his heart._

__

__

_And all he could see was the man in front of him, vision tunnelled to those familiar dark eyes which did indeed look mean tonight._

_Porthos had witnessed them as pools of venom before, seen Aramis hunker down with rage and fury boiling inside him, determined and driven by nasty, savage thoughts normally locked down deep inside, hidden under a layer of familiar amenability and calm justice._

_But never before had Porthos been the recipient of this savage look. Nor had he ever seen the bitterness be worn so blatantly on the surface. It was a skin of whirling emotions directed right at him._

_But this was Aramis. **His** Aramis._

_“Aramis,” he said again, and it came out wrapped in a hopeful, breathless smile. “What are you doin’ here?”_

 

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Porthos had only ever sailed on a proper boat once in his life. A mission, a test, before he became a musketeer, one which required him to sail on a covert mission to England. The Channel, like the English, hadn’t sounded particularly daunting. Nor had it looked troublesome when he peered out suspiciously at the dark water from the shore before they boarded the sloop in the middle of the night. But as soon as they left the soft cliffs of France the winds had whipped up, he’d been lashed to the deck for his own safety and Porthos’ stomach rose and fell in time with the stormy seas and he had been at the mercy of the roll of the waves as they picked up the small boat and tossed and juggled it as if it were a child’s toy. The whole experience was worse than awful and the nausea and helplessness he felt had been rivalled very few other times in his life. 

Now someone had put him on another boat and as he fought to stand he realised that he was again lashed down to the deck. He groaned and tried to shift position, to ease the ropes binding him, then miraculously the seas suddenly calmed and the boat stopped lurching as he tried to push through the fuzziness in his head and regain consciousness enough to identify his surroundings. 

A large wave splashed over his face, making Porthos splutter and try to spit away the droplets of sea water. He licked his lips out of instinct and was surprised to find the water free from the unpleasant salty tang. 

Hands began working at his chest, poking and prodding and hurting with their every exploration, making him cry out in alarm.

Porthos finally wrestled an eye open and was surprised to see a large tree above him. He blinked, marvelling only for a second about how it had managed to sprout from the deck of such a small boat, before reality kicked in and Porthos gasped and looked around him properly, senses now alert and on guard. 

He was, indeed, lying, lashed down, but tied by each wrist not to a boat, but to the corners of a very old, decrepit cart. Beneath him were some smelly old sacks, which from the stench of them once contained – or possibly still did harbour remnants of – decaying vegetables. Also, his face and chest were wet. Not from an imagined ocean wave, nor from rain, as the blue sky above attested. So where had the water come from that had so rudely awakened him?

A large bucket was suddenly hoisted up beside him to teeter precariously on the side of the cart above his clenching, tethered hands.

And there, behind it, staring at him, cold and dispassionate, bruises purple and raw on his face, his bottom lip split and swollen, one hand on the handle of the bucket, was Aramis. 

“’Mis?” 

The soft puzzled plea escaped Porthos before he truly had time to consider all that had happened to put him in this position. 

He remained silent, caution and general fuzziness holding his tongue. That, plus the fact that he appeared to be tied fast to a cart and Aramis was doing nothing to help remedy that situation. Porthos lay there, confused, just staring at Aramis until the other flinched and dropped his gaze away then reached over to further adjust Porthos’ bandages.

He began to remember.

 _The fight._

_Seeing him there._

_Calling Aramis’ name._

_Elation, confusion, worry and a terrible sense of dread, all making his body, his feet, leaden and unable to move._

_Aramis, looking at him, so furious and angry, so coiled with wrath and hateful intent._

_Anticipating with a creeping dread what might happen but not really believing that it would._

_And then Aramis, **his** Aramis, moving in and hitting him with a cry that echoed around the arena._

_Being hit, again and again, each time turning his face back in disbelief._

_Needing to know **why?**_

_Aramis, shedding hot tears of pain even though he wasn’t the one being hit. Noting the bruises on his Spanish features even though Porthos knew it was not him who put them there._

_Taking it, accepting Aramis’ pain through his fists, and being unable to bring himself to hit back until it was too late._

_Seeing Aramis look up at the rafters, broken from a previous fight, then jumping up to pull down a lengthy, loose beam._

Did he yell _, ‘No!’_ , or just think it? 

_The sound, the feel, of his ribs breaking as the beam was slammed into his chest._

_Then a fist, coming at him fierce and forceful as Aramis screwed his face up in horror._

_Being hit again and again and again._

_Blackness._

“What did you do?”

Aramis must have heard the shock in Porthos’ voice. He winced his bruised eye then swallowed but didn’t answer or meet his gaze again. He did dip a cup into the bucket and hold it down in front of Porthos’ lips, so he could tilt his head up and drink if he so wished, but his focus sat somewhere around Porthos’ chest and he avoided making eye contact again. 

“Aramis! Look at me!”

Porthos ignored the cup and shook his wrists as much as he could, fists clenching again as he tested the ropes bound firmly around them. 

“What the fuck is this?”

Aramis moved out of his line of sight, the cart rocked briefly, then it was lurching forward and the rocking and heaving began again as Porthos bellowed out Aramis’ name in disbelief. 

 

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

“He’s perfectly fine. Nasty type though, will likely face the gallows back in Paris. Strangled one of the King’s cygnets purely for sport, you know, and in his spare time he steals from the elderly.”

The woman who had come to investigate Porthos’ cries for help recoiled in horror and Aramis set his features to suit the grim task and tipped his hat at her before turning back to Porthos with a long piece of cloth. 

“If I have to halt the cart again because you’ve attracted attention I will gag you for the rest of the trip.”

“Stop tellin’ people lies!”

“I wouldn’t have to tell them anything if you didn’t make such a fuss.”

“I wouldn’t have to make a fuss if you’d untie me.”

“That’s not going to happen any time soon.”

Porthos narrowed his eyes and before Aramis climbed back up to the cart, he growled, quite truthfully, “I need to pee.” 

Aramis took a deep breath and then nodded, more to himself than as an acknowledgement at Porthos. He’d anticipated this, Porthos observed. 

What Porthos hadn’t anticipated was that when Aramis guided the cart off the track and deep into some trees, he jumped down and came around to the foot of the cart, opened the back panel then reached forward and grabbed Porthos’ feet. 

Surprised, initially Porthos was too slow to understand what was happening and by the time he began to fight back and kick Aramis had already bound his ankles with a large, thick rope. 

“What in fuck’s name….?”

Aramis approached his upper body with some more lengths of rope but this time Porthos was ready, so there was some satisfaction when he snarled and made Aramis flinch and draw back. 

“You can stay tied up here in the cart and piss your pants for all I care.” he said tartly.

“Or you could Let. Me. Go!” 

“I don’t trust you enough to do that.” 

The words delivered a punch to Porthos’ gut that hurt way more than anything Aramis had delivered in the fight arena. Aramis too, seemed stunned by his own words and it seemed as if he had to steel himself before continuing. 

Aramis had left some loops free on the restraints on Porthos’ wrists and now he deftly threaded the two pieces of rope through the loops, secured them, cut the ropes restraining him to the cart and pulled Porthos up to sitting. 

The idea occurred to Porthos as soon as he realised Aramis was going to allow him off the cart. He didn’t have time to think about the details, or the repercussions, but the scent of freedom was too strong for him to resist kicking out at Aramis with his tied feet as he was pulled off the back of the cart. 

Aramis appeared ready for the moment of defiance though and skipped deftly out of the way of Porthos’ feet then yanked on the rope tying Porthos’ ankles together sending him tumbling backwards and landing with such force on the ground that he was winded for a long moment, his broken ribs feeling the impact and making him cry out in pain. 

While he was winded, strong hands flipped Porthos over onto his stomach and something made of hard steel was bolted around one wrist. Even as Porthos roared and cursed with rage Aramis sliced through the ropes on his ankles and wrists with a sharp blade then slipped back out of the way of Porthos’ free fist just before it started swinging in his direction. 

Initially lurching forward at his captor, trying to get the feeling back in his limbs, Porthos suddenly looked back to where he was tethered – _chained_ – to the cart and shook the heavy links with an expression of extreme disbelief. 

He looked up at Aramis, slack-jawed and aghast. 

“You … _chained_ me?”

Aramis licked his lips and seemed about to step forward, but ended up retreating back instead, throwing the cut lengths of rope to the ground and averting his gaze from Porthos to study the ground instead. 

“Aramis!” Porthos rattled the chain, outraged. “Aramis, you get over here and get me out of these or so help me I will never forgive you.”

“It’s a little bit late to talk about forgiveness now, don’t you think?”

The reply was hissed and heartfelt and Porthos could see that Aramis immediately regretted his little outburst, but neither an apology nor the undoing of his chain was forthcoming, leaving Porthos to curse and bellow until Aramis turned and walked some distance away then took his own leave behind a tree to do what Porthos couldn’t wait any longer to do with one free hand and limbs sore and stiff and rubbed raw from the ropes. 

If anybody had a special talent for evaluating all the possible outcomes of a situation it was Porthos. And he spent a good, mostly silent, angry hour evaluating every aspect of this situation and he concluded that – all things considered – he was in a fairly good position.

He rattled the chains again and watched closely to see if Aramis would react. 

Anyone else observing would have said the marksman remained unmoved, but Porthos had spent years getting to know not just every single little movement Aramis made, but why he made them, what they meant, and how he should interpret them. 

So although anyone else would have said Aramis didn’t react to the loud clank of the metal shackles, Porthos found himself grinning as he noted the muscle jump involuntarily in Aramis’ jaw and the miniscule tremor in his lips as he tried to focus and not react. 

“I’m ready to go when you are!” Porthos announced unexpectedly in a booming voice which made Aramis flinch. 

Without looking at Porthos, Aramis went to the saddlebags on the side of the horses and produced a long loaf of bread, which he promptly broke in two, throwing one half onto the back of the cart near Porthos. 

"We eat first," stated Aramis.

The bread was wholly unsubstantial, and Porthos did want to annoy Aramis by insisting they get going but Porthos’ stomach threatened rebellion if it wasn’t fed, so he tore into the relatively stale loaf and demolished it before Aramis was even half way through his piece. 

Chewing slowly, Aramis looked up as Porthos brushed the crumbs off his chest, the chains rattling noisily as he moved his arm. 

“Come on! Let’s get going! I’m very, very keen to see how you’re gonna do this,” smirked Porthos.

Aramis ignored him then disappeared back around the side of the cart and soon emerged with two large cups of water. Aramis downed his in one go and the other was nudged with a stick across the cart until it was close enough for Porthos to grab. If his thirst hadn’t been ravenous Porthos fancied that the cup may have been launched straight back and used to make a quick and satisfying addition to Aramis' other cuts and bruises, but as it was he gulped it down and couldn’t help making a rough noise of appreciation as his thirst was sated. 

Porthos glared across the cart at Aramis, who was regarding him with a very guarded but intense expression. The cup was carefully placed on the back of the cart, then Porthos couldn’t help tapping it and smirking. 

In an ominously playful sing-song voice he taunted, “You got a few problems to sort out now, don’t ya? The cup’s over here, I’m over here, you need me on the cart, but you can’t get me on the cart because you know the moment you get within my reach I’m gonna throttle that scrawny, wretched little throat o’ yours.”

Anticipating a long stand-off, Porthos flexed his free hand menacingly and stared Aramis down. 

Aramis did nothing, but kept on watching Porthos carefully. 

It took a while trying to recall if they’d ever had a personal stand-off before, and if so, who may have been the victor, and Porthos found himself blinking in an attempt to sharpen his focus. He had many bruises of his own and he could feel his cheek was swollen and cut, along with his left eye He gripped the side of the cart, first with his chained hand, then with his free hand. He could feel his limbs begin to quaver, to soften as … something … began to overcome him. This wasn't a reaction to Aramis hitting him. A fever? No, too quick. A malady wouldn’t evolve so quickly. Only a potion could weaken a strong body in such a short space of time and he certainly hadn’t …..

Aramis was standing, watching, waiting for the moment when Porthos recognised what was happening and who the only suspect could be for putting a potion in his water. 

“You didn’t?” gasped Porthos, expression once again wrought with disbelief. 

Aramis pursed his lips even tighter and took slow steps forward, rounding the opposite corner of the cart. 

“You! _You_ put a potion in my water? Aramis, _you_ did this to me?”

Aramis didn’t reply but as Porthos’ legs gave way and he moaned and slumped to the ground Aramis sank with him, still just out of reach but ready, waiting and guilty as hell. 

 

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

There were no imaginings of boats or being lashed to a deck when Porthos awoke. He knew immediately that he was in a cart, he knew who had put him there, who had tied his limbs tight, who had deadened his senses and who had dared put a band of metal and a chain on his wrist. 

He twisted so he could see Aramis, ensure his eyes were boring into the leathered back as he sat atop the front of the cart, and then Porthos began to curse and swear and promise violence and retribution. 

Porthos saw the spine straighten and tense as he vowed revenge, but Aramis merely flicked the reins and urged the horses on, which did nothing but enrage Porthos further.

It was a very, _very_ long day. 

Porthos refused to drink anything Aramis offered him and Aramis refused to let Porthos stop to pee as he said refusing to drink meant he shouldn’t have to relieve himself.

Eventually though, they did have to stop, for the sake of the horses, Porthos’ bladder and for their own sanity. 

“You have to drink something.”

Aramis muttered that while lowering the back gate of the cart. 

Porthos could see him evaluating the merits of his next move and they both eyed the chain and shackles lying beside him with equal dread. 

“Don’t you ever fucking dare put those on me again.”

Aramis stared at Porthos for a long moment then dropped his head down and kicked the wheel of the cart. 

“I can’t trust you not to run away.”

“If you dare ever chain me again, if you dare ever hit me again, if you even think of slippin’ a potion into my water, you need to know that when I get the chance I’m gonna get you, it’s gonna hurt, and I’m not gonna stop.” 

The flinch Aramis made as Porthos issued his threat was met with much satisfaction, but nevertheless he was still grabbed by the ankles and roughly pulled down to the end of the cart, as before. 

This time ropes binding his wrists together weren’t cut, only the ones on his feet and Porthos was left to wriggle off the end of the cart himself, almost falling as his stiff, sore ankles cramped as he tried to manipulate them back to normal. 

“You have to drink something or you’ll die of thirst,” said Aramis, pushing a cup of water across the cart with a stick. 

Porthos swiped it away and they both watched as it fell onto the ground, contents soaking slowly into the dirt. 

“You don’t trust me not to run away. I don’t trust you not to poison me again.”

“I didn’t poison you.”

“Lay me out with a potion then. Why are you treating me like a villain?”

“You have to drink,” repeated Aramis, ignoring the question. He retrieved the cup, wiped it down, then filled it with water from his own flask, swallowing and gulping down the contents with an over exaggerated display. Then he refilled the cup and slid it across the cart again. 

In between sending filthy looks, Porthos did drink. In all truth, he was terribly parched and pride didn’t stop him from demanding two more cups full until Aramis’ flask was empty. 

“I bought some stew from the inn back at the crossroads. I’ll get a fire going. I assume you’re hungry too?”

Porthos didn’t answer. These were the first civil, kind words Aramis had spoken to him since he had appeared in the fighting arena. Under Porthos’ anger and outrage a part of him was desperate to reconcile. Desperate to have the kind of reunion with Aramis that he’d dreamt about every night and tried not to think about every day. To feel those arms around him, reassuring him, calming him, stroking the back of his neck the way only a lover would know he liked it, that had been a fervent wish for so long now, one he always denied himself as he knew he should. 

“Untie my hands.” After yelling and raging all day, the softness of his words seemed jarring. 

Aramis rearranged sticks as small flames began to take hold.

“Aramis! I said untie me.”

“No.”

Porthos took a wobbly step forward as Aramis kept his eyes firmly on the fire, jabbing into it unnecessarily with a long, pointy stick. 

“You can’t keep me tied up forever.”

“We’ll see.”

A bitter laugh escaped from Porthos but Aramis remained grim and sober, lifting and settling the pot of stew onto the fire with a stick. He gestured to the log opposite him. 

“Sit.”

“Not sure if I can. Bit hard to get up and down with broken ribs.”

The opportunity for an apology lay clear, but all Aramis could say was, “Suit yourself.”

Anger replaced hopeful thoughts of reconciliation and for a moment Porthos looked at his bound wrists and knew how unbeatable he’d still be were he to spring on Aramis right now and hook them around his throat. 

“If you even consider trying to choke me I’ll make sure all four of your limbs are shackled for the rest of the journey.”

"The journey to where, exactly? Where're you takin' me?"

It was an innocent question, but one which seemed only to aggravate and upset Aramis. His lips tightened into a sullen line and the fire received another vicious volley of pokes with the stick.

Porthos released a growl of frustration and thumped down onto the log, sucking in a breath as the injury to his ribs made itself known. He sat there, tense and uncomfortable, plotting retribution, anger rising and simmering in an appropriate parallel to the stew Aramis was heating to a boil. 

For his part, Aramis remained silent and focussed on the fire and stirring the pot of stew, clearly intent on giving Porthos nothing but a grim countenance. 

“Would you like a drink with your meal?” he asked eventually as he poured the gluggy mixture of meat and sparse vegetables into two smooth wooden bowls. 

Porthos scoffed. “Yeah, like I trust you not to poison my drink again.”

“This is getting monotonous. It wasn’t poison. It was a potion. It was the only way I could get you back on the cart.

“I’m gonna keep reminding you of what you did because it was so out of line. All of it. The poison ... potion ... whatever you want to call it. Hitting me, breaking my ribs with that beam, tying me up, _chaining_ me up! You know what you did and how wrong it was and if you ever do any of those things to me again I’ll ….”

“Yes I know perfectly well what you’ll do. I’ve been hearing vivid descriptions of it for what seems to be an eternity.”

”Yeah, well you’d better take notice of what I’m tellin’ you ‘cos if you don’t untie me soon you know I’m gonna find a way to get free and I wouldn’t like to be you when that happens. An’ there’s no way you’re gonna get me back on that cart again. Not while I’m tied up.” 

Rising and placing Porthos’ bowl of stew and a chunk of bread just within his reach, Aramis sat back down sullenly on his own log and drew out his water skin, toasting it with attitude at Porthos before taking a long swig and making a long groan of satisfaction as he replaced the stopper. 

“Are you sure you don’t want some?”

“Told ya, you can’t be trusted.”

“Have it your way.”

Aramis shrugged and pulled out a spoon and began to stir the hot stew with it.

“Where’s my spoon?”

“You don’t get one. I can’t risk untying you or giving you a weapon. You see, I’m not the only one who can’t be trusted. You’ll just have to hold the bowl as best you can and sip out of it.”

“You fucker!” But as Porthos lifted and went to throw the bowl back across the fire, Aramis held up a warning finger. 

“The stew is the only warm food we have. Throw it if you must, but if you refuse to drink and you have nothing left to eat, I won’t be held responsible for the state of your hunger tomorrow. I'm not going to hunt or fish for you just because you've spoiled the perfectly good food you were offered.”

Aramis kept stirring his stew, ripped off a large piece of bread with his teeth and began chewing, watching Porthos with an appraising look all the while. 

“Fucker!” repeated Porthos, but he was ravenous and he balanced the bowl in his tied hands, swilling the stew around to cool it before bringing it to his lips and gulping down a mouthful. It tasted better than it looked and he savoured the warmth as it slid down his throat. 

When Porthos’ empty bowl landed at his feet, Aramis didn’t glance up. He took another big mouthful of bread then poured out some more stew and rose to hand it to Porthos. At the last moment though he clearly thought better of the contact and sat it on the grass before him instead. 

Porthos made a noise of dry amusement then tested the stew’s temperature before lifting the bowl to his lips and downing almost all of it in one go. 

He licked his lips with satisfaction then debated demanding a third bowl. 

It was when he looked up to check how much stew was left that he realised that Aramis was staring at him, chewing very slowly and swallowing before putting down the remainder of the bread to lay by his bowl of stew. 

Aramis’ full, untouched, bowl of stew. 

Something twisted uneasily in Porthos’ stomach. The effect of the stew was spreading through him, making his body sated, warm, relaxed ….very, very relaxed …. _sleepy_ even …. 

“Aramis!!”

”Well, you can’t accuse me of putting it in your _drink_ this time,” came the reply as Aramis rose, licking his lips nervously as he watched Porthos’ rage deepen.

Aramis may have been free of the potion’s influence and expecting a short wait for its full effect to take hold on Porthos, but even so, adrenalin and rage were in Porthos’ favour and he quickly rose and dived with a roar across the campsite in one motion, flinging his tied wrists at Aramis’ ankles as he tried to move out of harm’s way. 

"You poisoned me _again?!_ I'm gonna wring your throat, you little bastard!"

Porthos was the consummate fighter. Not that Aramis was any slouch of course, but a successful grab of an opponent’s ankles and the sight of them on the ground trying to scramble away was all Porthos needed to know that he had a distinct advantage. Not even the screaming pain of his ribs stopped him from hauling Aramis back, both hands gripping one ankle and getting a lot of satisfaction from roughly dragging him back into reach. 

“No. _No!_ Porthos! _Argghh_ ….Porthos!”

Aramis yelled and cursed and fought for his life as Porthos turned him over to face him then proceeded to hit him, fists locked and clenched, ungainly, but effective, getting morbid pleasure when he flattened Aramis with his body then managed to secure Aramis’ own forearm down and position it over his neck until he was trapped, effectively strangling himself under Porthos’ weight.

“Porthos! No! Por … _unggghh_.”

In such close proximity – his face hovering just above their two trapped arms as Porthos pressed down and slowly strangled Aramis, ignoring Aramis’ free hand which was unsuccessfully trying to pry his arm away – Porthos could see the moment when his former love began to lose consciousness. A desperate gasp, a crack of bone, a strangled scream, then everything slid into a mellow blackness.


	5. The Mediator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Athos.

Porthos stared at the thick canopy of oaks sliding past directly above him and knew immediately where he was. Not that he’d entered Paris lying prone on the back of a cart many times before, but it _had_ happened. The incident in Limoges for example, when he’d been sliced across the thigh had left him unable to ride and had led to him being bundled into a cart with Georges and Bertrand, also injured. The trip had been bumpy and uncomfortable but four hours of drinking the wine Aramis had procured from the inn had softened the journey considerably and all three had reached the outskirts of Paris – and watched the canopy of foliage above – in a much more mellow state than now. 

This was also the place where the musketeers often paused to rest before the final ride into Paris. After all, if you were expected back at 3pm and you reached this point at 1pm with only an hour’s ride left to the garrison, it seemed a waste to continue and lose what could be a perfectly pleasant hour spent lazing under the oak trees. Many a time he’d found himself propped up against one of these trees, snoozing or chatting to Aramis, recounting tales from their latest mission or just enjoying each other’s company.

Porthos twisted and glared up above him, certain that his neck would have a permanent kink to it from the movement he’d repeated so often these last few days.

The volley of abuse he’d lobbed at Aramis on waking tied to the cart once again seemed an age gone. Most of the day had been spent in complete silence with few other travellers querying their situation and Aramis refusing to engage with Porthos at all. 

Porthos kind of hoped it was because he was unable to speak and there was a grim satisfaction as he noticed the strange angle Aramis was sitting at, hunched rather than holding himself upright and at ease as was usual. Kind of hoped that Aramis had learned his lesson after Porthos had caught him and tried to strangle him. Kind of hoped that the tightness of his throat would be a constant reminder of how enraged Porthos was and how aggrieved he remained at his treatment. 

There were a lot of things that Porthos kind of hoped for when it came to Aramis, but he refused to think of them all in case his anger gave way to something more longing and desperate. So instead, as the tree branches moved past and clear blue sky opened up above him, and he felt the cart start to slope with the roll of the road down to Paris, Porthos thumped his fists onto the wooden planks underneath him to get attention. 

“Aramis? I know where we are and don’t you dare parade me through Paris like this. Aramis! I refuse to be on show, tied to a cart like a prisoner with everyone gawpin’ at me. Aramis!!! So help me, I’m gonna finish wringin’ your neck when I get hold o’ you!”

 

\----------------------------------------

 

So slowly did Aramis proceed through Paris that long before the cart reached the gates of the garrison, Athos, d’Artagnan and all the musketeers within earshot were alerted and awaiting his arrival. 

“We should ride out to escort him in,” enthused d’Artagnan, already moving off toward the stables. 

A hand on his arm halted his departure. 

“Tell me again what Dupont said?”

“It’s definitely Aramis.”

“But on a cart, not riding.”

“That’s what he said.”

“With no sign of Porthos.”

D’Artagnan’s face fell. “Apparently not.”

Athos looked towards the gates, sharp grey eyes pondering all the possibilities. 

“Athos, you think something has happened to Porthos?”

“I think …” Athos frowned, concerned, “I think that if Aramis had wanted us to meet him he would have paid a rider to summon us long before now. And if there was haste to get back to Paris he would not be arriving slowly on a cart. What did Dupont say was in the cart?”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “He didn’t.”

Athos hummed, thoughtful. 

“Aramis would only be returning on a cart if it was hauling something worthwhile. Something precious to him.”

Faltering at the possibilities, d’Artagnan grabbed his shoulders, eyes wide with fear. “No, Athos! You can’t mean …. Porthos’ body?”

“I don’t know,” said Athos, but his concern was clear. “Aramis would not return without Porthos, of that I am certain. And if they are not riding in together and if Porthos isn’t sitting beside Aramis now, then we have to steel ourselves for all possibilities, no matter how fearful they may be.”

The wait became a sombre one, excitement tempered by worry. But when the cart finally trundled slowly through the gates, horses tired and thirsty, tarp thrown haphazardly over the load, and the musketeers saw Aramis sitting atop, distinctive hat pulled low over his brow, beard and hair unkempt and long but undeniably his, the whole garrison moved forward to greet him, with Athos and d’Artagnan to the fore. 

“Aramis!” d’Artagnan cried out as he clambered up to hug him before Aramis had even dropped the reins. “We have not been the same without you. Welcome home.”

Athos held back, watching. Nobody could resist the force of nature that was an enthusiastic hug from d’Artagnan. That was one of the true sureties in life. Aramis was no different, and he smiled softly at Athos over d’Artagnan’s shoulder, but the wince and the nervous laugh that escaped him when d’Artagnan refused to let him go and the way he then buried his face into the young man’s neck to hide from Athos’ gaze spoke volumes. 

Eventually, Athos had to gently pull the young Gascon away. He clasped hands with Aramis but remained on the ground, looking up at him, searching for answers without having to ask, but Aramis couldn’t hold his gaze and for a moment Athos feared the worst. 

Then suddenly there was a yell and commotion from the rear of the cart. 

“Porthos!” 

Joubert had pulled back the tarp and musketeers now swarmed to the rear of the cart as a familiar baritone voice growled warnings as they tried to help him up. 

“No! Don’t pull at me! I can’t sit up, I’m tied. Don’t ask why, just cut the fucking rope. Yeah, it’s good to see you too. Ow, fuck! Careful!”

Still clutching Aramis’ hand tight, Athos raised a querying eyebrow at Aramis, who now more than ever refused to meet his eyes.

“Aramis,” Athos called softly, and for once he couldn’t stop himself from smiling broadly, “You did it. You found Porthos and you brought him home.” 

Aramis yanked his hand free and made a slow, stiff descent off the cart, Athos noticing the cuts and bruises and marks on his neck and that he was also cradling his right arm with his left hand. 

“Aramis, we need to talk …”

“No, we don’t. All you need to know right now is that I’m done with him.”

He turned and walked away slowly, clearly sore and feeling the extent of his injuries. 

Even as Porthos felt d’Artagnan cut the ropes binding his wrists and raise him to a sitting embrace, he swivelled around and his eyes followed Aramis across the courtyard.

“I missed you so, so much, brother,” d’Artagnan said with a relieved laugh, kissing his cheek and hugging him tight. 

Porthos could only manage a nod in reply. He couldn’t take his eyes off Aramis, walking away slowly, head down, holding his right arm, stance steeped in defeat, not even aware of Athos moving after him with a rare smile, startled as he was stopped then drawn into a slow but full embrace, then slumping into the firm hold and burying his face into Athos’ neck. 

More ropes were cut and still Porthos couldn’t keep his eyes off Aramis, even when he began to move his legs and hissed in pain as they were finally free to bend and flex.

“Come, let’s get you inside, my friend.”

Porthos could see Athos suggesting the same to Aramis, who declined and slid out of Athos’ grasp to stagger away wearily in the direction of his quarters. Athos now looked over to the cart and Porthos knew some silent communication was going on over his shoulder. 

“Let me help you down,” d’Artagnan was saying, gently urging Porthos towards the cart’s edge.

Porthos looked up at the young Gascon finally and was shocked at the emotion he felt on seeing him in person again. Thoughts and dreams were no match for reality and to see d’Artagnan’s face again – earnest yet hopeful, excited, relieved – made Porthos blink furiously as long-stifled emotions threatened to bubble forth. 

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you,” smiled d’Artagnan, clasping Porthos’ shoulder and kissing his cheek. 

“As do I, brother,” said Athos, rounding the side of the cart and gifting Porthos with a warm smile almost as watery as his own. The alighting process was halted for a long while as Athos leaned in and hugged Porthos tight, d’Artagnan throwing himself back into the huddle as well, none of them able to hold back the tears any longer. 

With a friend on each arm, Porthos felt he should say something but his tongue seemed as tight as his limbs and he looked at them apologetically in turn, ducking his head to hide his emotion when Athos leaned in again to greet him with a cold nose against his neck. 

“Whatever else has happened, we’re just overjoyed to see you again,” Athos whispered, then added quietly, “Both of you. We have missed you and Aramis greatly.”

Porthos bit his lip and shook his head in denial at all the sentiments. 

Athos and d’Artagnan glanced at each other knowingly. 

“We don’t need words,” d’Artagnan assured him. 

“We only need you,” agreed Athos, slotting in under Porthos’ arm to support him and placing a comforting hand over his chest. 

“Come, my friend, there will be plenty of time for all of us to recount our respective tales. For now you require sustenance and rest. 

 

\----------------------------------------

 

Friendships cater for fun and frivolity. They provide support when people are laid low with life’s many challenges. They are also sometimes very, very hard work, decided Athos. 

After checking on both their returned friends and having the physician attend to them each in turn, it was decided that Porthos would be the most forthcoming about what had gone on, therefore d’Artagnan would stay with Aramis – who had fallen asleep the moment he crawled onto his bed – and Athos would be the one to perform the first gentle interrogation on Porthos. 

 

\----------------------------------------

 

“I am not in any way inclined to involve myself with affairs of the heart. Not in regards to myself therefore in no way in regards to anyone else. However when two of my three best friends are alienated from each other in such an entrenched way I feel it is my duty to intervene.” 

Porthos was sitting on the edge of his bed, the one Athos knew he had previously shared almost nightly with Aramis. His face was blooming dark with shiny bruises and cuts. His wrists and ankles were rubbed raw and bleeding from the ropes which had bound him. Now that the shirt had been discarded, as well as being able to see that Porthos had kept in spectacular shape, Athos could also see the horrible evidence across his chest of where Aramis had clubbed him with a beam. That account, as well as the description of being chained and drugged and tied up were the ones Porthos flung at him time and time again when asked to recount his tale. And although Porthos seemed perfectly content and able to rant to Athos about his grievances about Aramis, he was by no means forthcoming about the rest of his tale and had only related the bare basics of his time away.

Athos leaned forward and placed both hands on Porthos’ knees. 

“You abandoned Aramis.”

“No more than when he went to Douai an’ abandoned me.”

“He told you he was leaving.”

“He knew I was thinkin’ about it.”

“He told you where he was going.”

“I couldn’t tell him where I was goin’ else he’d have found me.”

“He found you anyway,” observed Athos. 

Porthos scowled. “I came back here didn’t I?”

“Because he brought you back. It wasn’t voluntary.”

“Look, I’m here! What more do you want? And just to clarify, Aramis didn’t bring me back, he knocked me out, tied me up, chained me Athos, _chained me_ , drugged me, _twice,_ then threw a sheet over me and lugged me through Paris as if I were nothin’ but a load of cheap potatoes.”

“You. Abandoned. Aramis,” repeated Athos, enunciating each word crisply.

“And did you not just hear all the things he did to me?”

“I did and I’m shocked and appalled that he treated you so badly, yet I’m not completely surprised because I knew that if he could find you, Aramis would do anything – _anything_ , Porthos – to bring you home safely. For Aramis, everything is trivial compared to the fact that you abandoned him.” 

“How many times do I have to say it? I didn’t abandon him. The reasons I left had nothing to do with him. He knew I’d be okay on my own.”

“Did he really?”

“An’ he had all his brothers here. Wasn’t like I left him out on his own.”

“I’m sure that was a big comfort to him, as it was when Marsac walked off and left him in Savoy.”

“Don’t you dare compare me to that piece of shit!”

“Both of you were Aramis’ lovers. Both of you abandoned him without warning. Can you not see the similarity?”

Porthos stood up and loomed menacingly over Athos, fist raised and ready. 

“You take that back, Athos, or so help me I’ll flatten you right here.”

“Sit down and calm yourself. It’s not me you need to be speaking to about this, it’s Aramis. You know his history with abandonment.”

“Did he say that? Really? He compared me to Marsac?” Porthos couldn’t hide the aghast expression on his face.

Athos regarded Porthos for a moment through hooded, deeply disappointed eyes, then slouched back and shrugged. 

“Aramis has said nothing. He’s been sleeping and when he has been awake he has been in no mood to talk. He doesn’t need to say anything. His hurt and betrayal is written all over his face and you my dear Porthos seem to be the only one oblivious to it. You are the one who looks out for all of us, who stays back to carry me home when all others have retired to bed. You settle Treville because he knows that when you are present, orders will be followed and order will be restored. You have always sat and talked to d’Artagnan long after his training in the garrison has ended because you know he needs to unwind, to speak of his father, his home. You understand his need to talk about his roots, his hopes, his dreams. And you have always, always been there for Aramis. You know every sign he makes when he is distressed, you know how to calm him when he’s agitating for a fight, you make sure he goes to church when he feels unworthy. Normally, there is nothing about him you aren’t attuned to, which is why I cannot fathom how you thought he wouldn’t be overcome with devastation when you left.”

“I didn’t abandon him,” growled Porthos, refusing to yield. 

“You did and you’re abandoning him now when he needs you.”

“Needs me. _Hmmph._ The Captain’s givin’ him time off to sulk and ignore me, as if he’s the one who was knocked out and hit on the head and tied up and drugged and tricked and dragged back to Paris in the back of a stinkin’ cart.”

Porthos waited for the comeback and when caustic words didn’t come forth he stole a sour glance at Athos. 

“What?” he frowned. Athos was staring at him with puzzlement and an even larger amount of disappointment than before. 

“You think Aramis has been given time off to sulk? That all that ails him is tetchiness and a few hurt feelings?”

Something in Athos’ tone made Porthos sit up straighter and take note. Athos was waiting for him to catch up and met his questioning stare with unusually bare frustration. 

“He’s got a few cuts an’ bruises but ...... Athos? What’s goin’ on? Tell me.”

“In all honesty I’m not sure that I should. You seem determined to regard Aramis as a foe rather than your best friend, albeit one you are currently not on speaking terms with, yet your insight into his mental and physical health is as lacking as your assessment of your own merits as a musketeer.”

“Athos! Tell me!”

“Fine. Aramis – your former very best friend in the whole world – has a badly broken arm.”

“What? When? How?”

Athos just glared back at him now with open irritation and defiance. 

A ball of unease spun and grew in the pit of Porthos’ stomach. He thought about it. About all the opportunities Aramis had to badly break an arm in the day since they returned, sitting alone in his room, sulking, not moving. He knew nothing had happened since the return to Paris, which meant ….

“Oh.”

Athos smiled unpleasantly as the truth hit home. 

“Yes.” He leaned in and slapped a hand down on Porthos’ shoulder. “In your attempt not to return to Paris I understand that you fought with him at one point, pressed his arm against his own neck and put your full weight upon it, tried to strangle him and when you did that you broke his arm – his right arm – the arm Aramis relies on to shoot a musket and wield a sword – and with your current self-involvement taking up every bit of your spare time you failed to notice that your closest friend is badly hurt in every way possible.”

“He … I ….” 

Struggling to find words, Porthos grimaced and shifted uneasily before folding his arms and staring at Athos defiantly. 

“He brought it on himself.”

“Porthos.”

“No, don’t _‘Porthos’_ me and look at me like that. You accept that he did what he had to do to bring me back to Paris, well, I did what I had to do to try to escape from bein’ tied up like a common slave. A slave, Athos!”

“I told you, I agree that he was wrong to have used such means to restrain you.”

“But …? Come on, I can see it loomin’ there …. _But_ ….?”

“But …. Let me ask you this, if Aramis had found you and merely sat down to talk to you, would he have been able to persuade you to return to Paris with him?” 

Porthos flexed out his shoulders and made a noise which might have been pain from the ribs or pain from having to reply to the question. 

“It’s not that simple.”

“Did you never imagine any of us walking through your door? Rejoicing at having found you?”

“Stop it, Athos.”

“No, I’m genuinely curious. Did you not ever imagine that we would wonder about you? That Aramis wouldn’t move heaven and earth in order to find you?”

Porthos once again rose with a roar of frustration. 

“Of course I thought about him finding me! I thought about it every minute of every day. Thought about all of you. Nothing could replace the friendship I found here, the moments we all had together.”

“Then help me understand why you had to leave and how I can convince you to never leave again. Please Porthos, I can’t make all this better without being able to make sense of why you left us in the first place.”

“You know why.”

For the first time, cracks began to show in Porthos’ angry demeanour. Athos rose and put a hand on his shoulder, holding it there as he searched Porthos’ eyes for answers.

“I can make a broad guess. But I need to hear it from you to truly understand.”

Porthos threw his head back and looked to the ceiling for help. When he finally dropped his head to stare at Athos his eyes were bright with emotion. 

“The only things I’ve ever been sure about are my love for my mother, my ability to fight and my certainty about my worth as a musketeer. Meeting Belgard made me understand that maybe there was a part of myself, a side to my personality that I wasn’t aware of that came from him. That perhaps one day I’d let his bitterness take over and I’d end up a sad, resentful old man who nobody would give the time of day.”

“That’s never going to happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you. You are not Belgard.”

“Maybe.” Porthos sniffed. “But knowing who my father is has changed me. And despite the Captain assuring me that I earned my place as a musketeer, I can’t help but wonder if I truly have the merit to be one.”

“I warn you. I’m going to start calling you ridiculous if you continue this line of thinking.”

That elicited a small smile from Porthos but he shook his head. 

“You can call me whatever you want. It won’t change how I feel. My pride’s been dented, my confidence shattered. And when that little baby and her mother were crushed under the door …”

“You didn’t kill them,” interrupted Athos firmly.

Porthos regarded him grimly.

“You didn’t kill them, Porthos,” repeated Athos. “I went back and I asked questions and I know, for certain, that they had already been killed by the attackers, their bodies placed in front of the door to impede our entry. It was pure bad luck that you were the one to burst in and make that false assumption.”

“Still, if they had been placed alive in front of the door I would have killed them.”

Athos shook him gently.

“You didn’t kill them. You’ve had a long time to believe that you did, but trust me, you didn’t.”

“I caused all of you to get badly hurt. I was useless,” growled Porthos. 

“It was an unfortunate series of events but nothing we haven’t all experienced before and certainly nothing that any of us have ever spent a second blaming you for. We are all alive now because of your actions after we were all hurt. You took on all those men alone and single-handedly you triumphed.”

Porthos made a face. “Triumphed,” he huffed, “That’s a strong word and not one you should ever apply to me.”

“My friend, we are all fallible. All of us as musketeers are creatures of fault. We all have moments of despair and doubt, but we all – you included – have our triumphs and those are the treasures to hold close to our heart, rather than our fears and doubts.”

Not agreeing, but sheepishly smiling, Porthos allowed Athos to pull him in for a hug. 

“When did you get to be the one spouting wise words of comfort?”

Athos gave him a wry smile. 

“When my two best friends left me and I had to learn to become a mediator in their absence.”

“Mediator, huh? So all these kind words aren’t for my benefit alone?”

“You know full well they have a double purpose.”

Nodding, Porthos stepped back and ran a hand across the bandages on his chest. 

“I won’t forgive him for any of this,” he stated with certainty.

“If we can just all sit down together and talk then ….”

“No.”

“Porthos, please, if Aramis and you could ….”

“Athos!” Porthos was firm. “I said no!”

Admitting defeat – for now – Athos held his hands up and nodded. 

“Fine, have it your way, but you will listen to one last thing I have to say. You said you have three deep beliefs in life. Well Aramis has a deep and profound belief in three things in life too. Number one is his belief in God. Number two is his belief in his own abilities as a musketeer and a marksman. And number three – not necessarily the least of the three - is his belief, his trust and his love for his brothers and you, Porthos, are the one he loves most of all. At the moment God seems to be the only certainty Aramis has left. Don’t let him lose his faith in you completely. And as much as I cherish not having to look away with embarrassment when the two of you demonstrate your feelings for each other, I admit to feeling lost without you both making me blush.”

Porthos grimaced and adjusted the bandages on his chest. 

“Any feelings we might have had for each other are gone, evaporated along with any trust we’d built up over the years. He said he’s done with me, well I’m well and truly done with him too. There’s nothin’ you can do to change that.”

 

\------------------------------------------

 

“Aramis …”

The tone was patient, yet firm, and it was one which had been used between them on more than one occasion before, but Aramis remained unmoved, resolutely staring out the window, cradling his arm, unwilling to engage with Athos in any way. 

“ _Aramis?_ This situation necessitates some conversation.”

“I’m sure we’ve already done that.”

“No, when you first arrived back I noticed your arm was broken, you let me send for the physician to set it, he tended to the injuries on your face, you told me the very basics about how your arm came to be broken, and since then you’ve said barely a dozen more words to describe what you have done and where you have been for the last seven months.”

Aramis waved him away, an irritation, as Athos moved into his line of sight. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It very much does.”

“Athos …” Aramis turned and leaned back heavily against the window frame, his whole demeanour suddenly weary beyond belief, the fresh bruises and cuts on his face livid against his pale skin, “We will do this later. Right now, I haven’t the strength to recall much of my journey or anything at all.”

“Yet a long time from now, when you finally agree to tell me your tale, you’ll have a thousand recollections, all of which you’ll have had time to hone and adapt to your liking, many of which most likely will leave out the painful truth of the matter.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, Athos unable to hide his deep concern and Aramis failing to hold back the deep distress which clearly pained him so terribly. 

Athos gestured to the couch in the corner then held out a hand to guide Aramis. 

“Come, sit with me. As painful as it is, we will do this now, my friend. I will not judge you, but I need to hear the truth.”

 

\----------------------------------------

 

“I thought I would find him quickly. Wherever he was, whatever his state of mind, every day I woke and was certain that I would open a door or walk into a tavern and there he’d be.”

Aramis sat beside Athos on the tattered old couch, head down, fiddling thoughtlessly with the torn hem of his shirt, speaking quietly, every now and then looking up at Athos with earnest eyes, wary of judgement but desperate for understanding. 

“I honestly can’t tell you all the details of my time away. My focus was Porthos, always Porthos. If I ate, I can’t tell you what the meal was or how it tasted. If I drank, I’m unable to tell you if it was the best or worst wine ever to cross my palate, if my bed was lumpy or the softest in the land, fit for a princess, I cannot say. From the moment I left here ….no, from the moment _Porthos_ left here …. I could only think about one thing.”

“Finding him.”

Nodding, Aramis shifted back slightly and pointed to the pattern of a red flower on the couch.

“I started here in Paris and went north, asking every and all if they had seen a man such as Porthos. You and I can cut our hair, shave our beards, flip up our collars and hunch or stand straight so as to appear smaller or taller. Porthos will always be a man of colour, his voice will always be deep, his stature large. I implored everyone to recall if they had seen such a man but no-one could recall encountering anyone of his description.”

Tracing his fingertip up to the rear of the couch and around the winding tapestry vines, Aramis frowned.

“I asked in all the towns and inns and villages up here. I felt sure he would head south, which is why I went north.”

“Your logic has always been a curious thing,” remarked Athos with a smile. 

Aramis nodded and allowed himself the hint of a wry grin with this admission.

“Porthos would know I would guess he would go south, so I figured he would have gone north to throw me off his trail.”

“But he would have guessed your tactic so I’m speculating he headed south figuring you went north?”

“We haven’t spoken of it but I do think he may have outsmarted me, yes.”

“Aramis, you are speaking as if Porthos left deliberately to escape you.” Athos bent in close. “You must know that is not the case at all.”

“You are wrong to speak in absolutes of this matter,” hissed Aramis. Then he dipped his head and took a deep breath, briefly patted Athos on the arm by way of an apology, then added softly, “Whatever the true reason he left, Porthos knew for certain that I would search for him.”

“Maybe, but …”

“He knew that, Athos. He knew and he hid from me and he fought against his return.”

“We will agree to leave this as a point of conjecture, but my friend, I am certain that the purpose of him leaving was not to abandon you. Whatever crisis of confidence Porthos had or is having, was not of your doing, nor was his reaction aimed to hurt you.”

“But it did. It does. It tears me up inside and when I found him, I suddenly realised I had to devise a way to bring him home. Athos, that was all I could think of. Bringing him home.”

Athos could only nod at that. 

Aramis sighed, weary of the telling already. His finger tracked down the tapestry to a small bunch of black berries on the edge of the seat. 

“After three months in the north I headed south, and I began to think less about where he might be and focus on what he would have to do to survive. What sort of job he would have to take to stay alive. He’s a fighter through and through. I knew he wouldn’t go back to thieving for a profession, although I was sure he could make a living through gambling if he wasn’t put to the sword for cheating.”

After a silent minute where Aramis seemed to get lost in his memories, Athos nudged him gently.

“So how did you find him?”

“When I asked in the south about a large, dark man, possibly a fighter or gambler, I began to hear stories about a champion, a man who fitted the description, a larger than life figure, dark, fearsome and ferocious they said. A noble beast, one person called him and that’s when I felt I was getting close to finding Porthos. Made quite an impression on all who fought him and all who saw him. Eventually someone gave me a name – Jonas. I remember vividly when I slipped into the crowd to watch him fight the winner of all that week’s rounds. He walked out and he was magnificent. His opponent had buried a knife in the arena and he cut him, but of course, Porthos recovered from the surprise ambush with the weapon and overcame him, even though he was injured. He had the class that he no longer believes he possesses, but anyone seeing him fight would never doubt his prowess.”

“Yet you thought you could beat him?”

Once again, Athos couldn’t stifle a smile and a matching one was pried out of Aramis. 

“I ….no, I would never think I could beat Porthos in a fair fight.”

“Ah, you insinuate it wasn’t a fair fight? That you tricked him somehow?”

“No, I didn’t trick him. But it wasn’t fair. Not really. Not knowing Porthos as I do. I knew I only had a certain amount of time to take advantage of him. After that I knew he would begin to hit back and I wouldn’t have a chance.”

“How could you be sure he wouldn’t fight you right from the start?”

Aramis looked up into Athos’ grey eyes, searched them to see if Athos would guess the truth then smiled wearily when he didn’t. 

“How many times have you ever seen Porthos fight me? _Really_ fight me?”

“I … well …”

“Has he ever hit me?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“Has he ever engaged me in hand to hand combat?”

“I’ve seen him fight d’Artagnan to teach him a lesson. He grappled me in training last Christmas on a dare and I could barely walk for a week.”

“And me?”

“You?” Athos considered the question for a moment then looked at Aramis thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you and Porthos fight, not seriously, not in training and now I put my mind to it, not even in jest.”

“Because he always says he couldn’t hurt me if he tried.”

“It seems he’s recently proven that theory incorrect.”

Aramis felt his neck, rubbed his swollen cheek then adjusted the cloth holding his broken arm. He winced, conceding the point. 

“At least the theory worked at the time when I really needed it to.”

“You can hardly blame him for fighting you when you tied him to a cart. Tied him and drugged him. Tied him, drugged him and chained him.”

The emphasis was on those last two words, which made Aramis punch the couch between them and glare at Athos, eyes blazing with a resentful anger.

“I thought there was to be no judgement?”

“I am not judging, merely establishing the truth of what happened.” Athos went to put a hand behind Aramis, to rest it on the back of the chair, then thought better of it. Instead, he dropped it lower and clasped Aramis’ shoulder then cupped his neck gently. “If there were no chains, please correct me.”

Aramis ran his hands through his hair once then clasped them tightly in front of him, defensive, stiffly leaning forward to avoid Athos’ touch.

“I did what I had to do. I brought him back.”

“That you did. And now that Porthos is here, what do you propose to do with him?”

Another, less patient soul would have felt it necessary to fill the long silence that followed with more words, but for Athos, unnecessary words were rare and he only spoke again when it became clear that Aramis was struggling to find an answer. 

“Aramis?”

“I don’t know!” He looked up, tired eyes despairing but not lost to the anger that had fuelled him for so many long, lonely months. “I had to bring him back. That’s all I know, Athos. That was my only thought from the moment I left Paris. Bring Porthos back. The closer I got to him, the more determined I was and when I finally saw him walk out into that ring, magnificent, confident, in control ….. _happy_ … I knew I had to use any means possible to get him to Paris.”

“Including poisoning and chaining him.”

“You weren’t there! If I hadn’t poisoned him, hadn’t chained him I would never have been able to get him back to Paris on my own.”

“You do not think that calm words would have had the same effect?”

Aramis stood suddenly, took two long strides and violently kicked a chair across the room. Before it had finished rattling to the floor Aramis had spun and pointed an accusing finger at Athos. 

“If calm words were all it would have taken, I would have used them, but unfortunately, all the words I’ve ever spoken to Porthos were not calm enough or endearing enough to stop him from leaving me. I very much doubt that a few words spoken by me would have convinced him to return.” 

“Porthos didn’t leave because of you.”

“So you keep saying, but we both know that there was nothing he saw in me that made him want to stay.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re tired….”

“Shut up!”

“… and emotional …”

“I said shut up!”

“… and you’re letting your passions stoke your anger.”

“My passions!” Aramis laughed and it was a flat, cruel, ironic sound. “You wish to evoke theories about my passions, Athos? Let me tell you about them. What I felt for Porthos was a passion, a love, so terrifying in its fullness that it rivalled the swell in my heart for my God, yet I trusted Porthos so deeply, so blindly that I wasn’t afraid to share it openly with him. I knew he would never betray me. I knew that whatever I declared, whatever I gave him of myself would be mirrored and returned tenfold. I would sooner have doubted my aim with a pistol at five paces than allow myself even a grain of reservation about Porthos’ love for me.” 

Aramis withdrew his pointed finger and clutched his shirt, bunching it over his heart as he hit himself on his chest. 

“Everything I’ve known, everything I’ve held as the truth is broken. Ruined. I brought him back under the assumption that his return would fix everything but now my mission is completed I see that there won’t ever be a way to make that so. My trust is broken. I’m broken. If he walks out of the garrison tomorrow I won’t follow him and I won’t ever bring him back.”

“Porthos isn’t going anywhere.”

“You don’t know that. Nobody can give that assurance. I didn't think Marsac would ever leave me and he did. Now Porthos has followed suit. Perhaps I am the cause of all this. Anyway, I cannot bear to spend a second longer in his company, so if he doesn’t leave, maybe I should.”

Athos rose and before Aramis could retreat, he found two strong hands holding his shaking shoulders.

“Aramis, your fears are giving way to so many dark thoughts borne of exhaustion and loneliness.”

“Weary I may be, but my resolve is not something built in a single restless night. 

This time, Athos refused to be shrugged off when Aramis tried to dodge his arms and step back. Instead, he drew Aramis into a reluctant hug and held him for a long time until it was reciprocal. 

“I will only say this once,” Athos murmured into Aramis’ ear. “I’ve missed you terribly, brother. And Porthos has been equally missed. I’ve remained here, wondering about your fates, admonishing myself for not doing more to find you both. Reminding myself that you are two grown men, perfectly capable of fighting your way through the world without my assistance or care. But now that I have you both back in my sights in Paris, I will battle the Devil himself to keep you here. If you cannot or will not converse with Porthos, so be it, but neither of you will leave here again while I am on watch. Do I make myself clear?”

Athos drew back enough to be able to look Aramis in the eye. He had seen that look before: defiant, challenging, questioning his authority, but beneath it all there was bone-deep exhaustion and a desperate need for care that made his own features soften. 

“Enough now,” he whispered, kissing Aramis’ cheek. “My duty of care begins here. Tomorrow we will clean and properly prepare your old room, but tonight you will sleep here in my quarters, eat my food, partake of my best wine and steal all the warmth from my fire, and I shall not begrudge you any of it, my friend.”

“Is that an order?” asked Aramis, gaze no less sharp despite his fatigue.

“Absolutely.”

Aramis nodded then wearily dropped his head down onto Athos’ shoulder. 

“Tonight, for once, I have a great desire to do as I'm told.”


	6. Unexpected Repercussions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the long delay. I’ve been working hard and winter has been long and dark and dreary. But I’ve put aside my other projects and spring is finally here, so I’m back into writing mode again. Thanks for all your patience.

Captain Treville was used to very late nights. Ones invariably spent surrounded by maps and papers and letters rather than people. However tonight he felt the occasion of having actual company warranted a raid of his cellar, which, coincidentally, had been stocked after a raid of the royal cellar when the opportunity presented itself by way of a grateful, emotional king giving him carte blanche to take what he wanted as long as it was not something he would ever miss. 

And he had. 

And up to this moment the quite considerable cache had never been felt lacking from the palace.

Never missing a trick, Athos eyed the expensive bottle with a raised eyebrow, then kept it raised as he looked up at the Captain handing him the glass of deep amber brandy. 

Treville huffed, the sound coming out more humorous than he’d intended. 

“Don’t worry, drinking it isn’t a lynchable offence.”

“It was more the fact that you are encouraging me to drink that concerned me,” murmured Athos, “Indeed, I do believe this is a first.”

“Well don’t get used to it. This is merely paving the way for me to dare to ask you how you have fared with our sore and sorry, sulking friends.”

Athos raised his other eyebrow. “Poetic alliteration and the king’s best brandy from you all in the same night. I may well faint from the attention.”

D’Artagnan laughed then spluttered then held up his glass to show Treville that he hadn’t wasted any of the fine liquor in his little outburst.

Treville merely shook his head at both men then finally removed his coat, filled himself a very large glass and sank back into his chair with a weary sigh.

“Any time you’d like to start, Athos….”

“I’d feel better speaking if I had something conclusive to tell you.”

“Are they opening up to you, at least?”

“They are, when pushed, although I would like it known that I am having to work extremely hard and perform an interminable amount of talking to persuade them to confide in me.” Athos sighed and slumped back in his chair, groaning in appreciation as Treville topped up his glass. “They are both talking, although there is an awful lot they aren’t saying. Indeed, they may not be admitting things to me because they haven’t yet been honest with themselves about how they feel.”

“Where do they stand with each other? Whose anger outweighs the others?” asked d’Artagnan. 

“The intensity of their anger seems similar, but I feel that Porthos is likely to soften his views as time goes on. His anger is fresh and new, rage only coming from outrage at the way Aramis treated him when he brought him back.”

“You think Porthos will forgive Aramis?”

“If he could ever forgive anyone for putting him in chains, Aramis is the one. It seems clear to me that Porthos has deeply missed all of us while he was gone. Even if he questions his own worth, I’m sure he would like nothing more than to be welcomed back as part of the garrison. He’s furious with Aramis though and is in no mood to make peace over the way he was treated.”

“And what about Aramis and his grievances?”

“Ah, now there is something less easily retracted.” Athos took a long drink and shook his head. “Aramis has had seven long months alone to stoke his anger and resolve. In his mind he’s been personally rejected, abandoned, and he has had to do unthinkable things to Porthos in order to honour his vow to bring him home to us. He is blaming Porthos for the whole debacle, but now that he has him back in Paris, mission completed, he doesn’t know what to do, is too angry to speak to him and I think he only now feels truly isolated and alone.”

Treville made a face.

“What if we just lock them in a room together until they sort it out?”

“You can clean up the blood and body parts afterwards,” remarked d’Artagnan.

“That bad, is it?”

Athos shrugged. “They require time and a reason to resolve their perceived injustices. That is an exceptionally mild assessment of the situation you understand.”

Treville sighed heavily. “Is their deep love for each other not reason enough to forgive their hurt?”

Suddenly realising the slip, d’Artagnan choked on his wine then shot Treville a worried look, but the Captain merely held up a hand and shook his head. 

“My position requires me not to speak of it, but that does not mean I am not aware of the personal ... _affairs_ ... of my men, legal or otherwise.”

d’Artagnan gulped down a large swig of the brandy but Athos remained unruffled. 

“Good, then you know this is more than just two friends who have had a falling out.”

“I know that I can give them leeway for a short period of time, allowing for their injuries and their recovery, but if you two cannot make them resolve their issues with each other soon I will have to reassess their suitability for serving as musketeers.”

“Captain! You wouldn’t!?”

Treville didn’t flinch.

“I may have to. My men don’t have to like each other, but at the very least there has to be a modicum of respect and the ability to work together. It is that special bond that we all have with each other that makes us so formidable and which distinguishes us from the Red Guards. If two musketeers can’t even exist in the same room together without friction then their positions become untenable. All this time since they have been gone I have reported to the palace that Porthos and Aramis have been off together on a secret mission. Until now, my lies have been accepted and not questioned. But if rumour gets back to the palace that our senior musketeers have returned and are not even on speaking terms, and if the truth comes out, I will have some serious questions to answer. ”

“But Captain ….”

Athos, rose and pulled d’Artagnan to standing, tipped his head at Treville, then guided the still-protesting young musketeer towards the door. 

“Athos! Did you not hear what he just said?”

“I did.”

“He can’t make them both leave!”

“He can.”

“But we must go back, we must beg him, plead with him to change his mind!”

At the bottom of the steps, Athos turned to d’Artagnan and put both hands on his shoulders. 

“The Captain can make them leave, but he won’t.”

“But he said ….”

“d’Artagnan, be calm, my friend. I know the Captain. He has wrestled with the absence of two of his most trusted musketeers for many long months now, and he has shared our sense of great loss, not just because he lost two experienced soldiers but because he cares about both of them. He takes aboard all our personal trials, even though we may not always realise it.”

“Then why did he say what he did?”

“Frustration? Or maybe just because he knows the importance of mending such a strong bond. We all have strengths as individuals but that is nothing compared to our combined force.”

“Mending their ill will is very well in theory, but how do we actually go about it? From what we’ve seen they’re more likely to try to strangle each other than kiss and make up if we put them in the same place together.”

“That is the unfortunate truth of it,” murmured Athos, but as he looked around the garrison his eyes settled on the passageway leading to the holding cells and a slow smile spread over his face. 

“Athos? What is it?”

He pointed at the gloomy corner of the garrison. 

“Remember that skirmish you had with the Red Guards?”

“Skirmish! Good grief it was hardly a skirmish, it was an all-out brawl. After they locked me up in the dungeon at the palace I was lucky to escape with my life.”

“Well, you were lucky we managed to capture eight of the Red Guards ourselves and had some bargaining chips to do an exchange with you.”

D’Artagnan grinned. “They’re still livid that you sent them back in nought but their underclothes.”

“That was Treville’s idea. It made the King laugh so hard to see them front up at the palace near naked that the Cardinal was never going to be able to successfully press for serious charges against you, nor have we any intention of returning the Red Guard uniforms any time soon.”

“You _are_ going to tell me the point of bringing that episode up now at ridiculous o’clock in the morning when we should be discussing strategies to reunite Porthos and Aramis?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you, when I’ve worked out exactly what that strategy is. And perhaps, just perhaps, our friend’s long absence from Paris and their lack of knowledge about what has been going on here while they've been away might prove advantageous to our plotting.”

 

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

“I’m not goin’ to The Wren. No way.”

D’Artagnan stopped again and turned around, exasperated. 

“I told you, we’re not going to The Wren. We _are_ going for a drink though.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere where he might be.”

“And I’ve made it clear – numerous times – that Athos is accompanying Aramis today and you are with me and the likelihood is that our paths will not cross. Now come on or we’ll never get anywhere.”

“They’d better not cross paths.” Porthos stopped again and gave d’Artagnan a stormy warning of a look. “If I find out you’re tryin’ to trick me I’m gonna be mighty pissed.”

“Porthos!” d’Artagnan swung round again and held his arms wide. “Look at us! We left fifteen minutes ago and have barely made it out of eyesight of the garrison.”

Porthos grunted and looked over his shoulder. Indeed, the wide garrison gateway was still visible in the far distance. He frowned and glanced unhappily at d’Artagnan. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “Just a bit on edge is all.”

“I know. I _do_ know. But whatever else is going on, I am your friend, I’m delighted, no, ecstatic, that you’re back, and all I’d like to do today is spend a nice afternoon drinking and laughing and being in your company because I’ve missed it so terribly.” 

Porthos mumbled and kicked the dirt hard with the toe of his boot, like a giant, petulant toddler. 

d’Artagnan couldn’t help but smile fondly.

“I’m not the best company at the moment. You know that, right?”

D’Artagnan sighed, approached Porthos and put both hands on his shoulders, looking up at him with his kindest, empathetic expression. 

“It will all work out, you’ll see.”

“But that’s it, I can’t see how it’ll work out. Not with both of us here. I don’t know what I’m doin’, don’t know what to say or where to go or even what to wear. I mean look at me!”

D’Artagnan appraised Porthos’ clothing – a lush dark shirt he’d never seen before with small studs sewn on in an elaborate design around the collar, old, heavily worn trousers looking well worse for wear, a big, bright buckled belt which d’Artagnan suspected had been a trophy from a fight, odd boots which had so many holes in them that they barely held together, and lastly, Porthos’ musketeer jacket, kept safe and accepted back with emotion on his return. 

It was the jacket that d’Artagnan patted, smiling. 

“This is all that matters, my friend.”

“Is it though?” asked Porthos, uncertain and morose.

D’Artagnan flashed his most brilliant smile.

“For now, yes. You’re home where you belong. Everything else will fall into place, you just need time. Time and wine and good company with your friend d’Artagnan. Surely that will solve all the world’s problems?”

Porthos shook his head, but couldn’t keep his smile at bay. He scoffed and put a large arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders and began to walk. 

“When did you become so wise, young’un?”

“Well, I do believe it began when I was locked up at the palace not a few months back.”

“What?” Porthos raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You? For real? What happened?”

“Ahh, you are not going to hear that tale before I am comfortably seated in a tavern and have had my fill of wine. Was it not you who taught me that the best stories are told in such a manner?”

Porthos managed a weak smile and ruffled his hair. 

“Too true, that I did. Come on. Let’s go to wherever we’re going. You can take my mind off things by telling me all about it.”

 

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

The buxom young lady walking ahead once again stopped, turned and bent down to adjust something inconsequential that didn’t need adjusting on her leg, lifting her skirts to check a shapely calf and also giving anybody walking behind her a thoroughly immoral view of her cleavage. 

“Truly, the King let d’Artagnan go free after he was locked in the dungeon? I imagine the Cardinal had much to say about the musketeers being shown such favoured consideration.”

As Aramis spoke he deftly swerved around the young lady and all her worldly goods on show, doffing his hat briefly by way of apology but failing dismally to pay her the attention she had been seeking with increasingly blatant tactics for the last mile or so. 

Athos raised an eyebrow, first at Aramis, then back at the young woman. 

Aramis blinked, following his gaze. “What?”

“You really are off your game, aren’t you?”

“Off my … what?”

Puzzled, Aramis followed Athos’ gaze back again then quickly turned to the path ahead, pulling his hat low and making a disgruntled noise. 

“Aramis, I am just observing that you are not quite yourself yet.”

“I am as true to myself as I’ll ever be, thank you very much,” he said brusquely.

“Not so long ago you would never have passed up the opportunity to assist a lovely young lady with any of her ailments, no matter how contrived.”

"Well perhaps I have put aside today to walk with my best friend and tomorrow I shall allot for the task of seeking out a number of suitable lovers. I’m sure the ladies of Paris have mourned my absence.” 

They walked in silence for a while, Aramis chewing his lip in thought, Athos refusing to bite at being referred to as Aramis’ best friend when they both knew that title had long belonged to another. 

“Do you know,” mused Aramis lightly, as Athos stopped him outside a tavern called The Miserly Lord, “I think I _will_ take myself a number of lovers and not all of them will be ladies. It has been too long since I last found my pleasure with a _man_ of substance.”

Athos said nothing but hoped his look was withering enough to silence this train of thought.

It wasn’t. 

Aramis met his glare with a convivial one of his own, testing out the resistance with a forced sunny smile. 

“And my dear Athos, now that I think it through properly, I can only conclude that the man I know who has the most substance of all is standing right here in front of me.”

“Stop it, Aramis.”

“Friends and lovers, what could be better?”

“I said _stop._ ”

Aramis put his uninjured hand on Athos’ chest and leaned in close, his expression one step away from a leer.

“Indeed, why wait until tomorrow? Neither of us are on duty. We could retire to my quarters back at the garrison and you could let me show you some of the delights of what two men can do together when …”

Athos hit his hand away and roughly pushed Aramis back against the wall of the tavern. 

“Enough!” he hissed. “I know what you are doing and it is not appreciated. These constant slights at Porthos present your state of mind as being very poorly indeed.”

“Porthos!” spat back Aramis. “I don’t recall mentioning his name!”

“Yet he is implicated in every sentence you utter because he is the only one who matters, isn’t he?” 

Athos shoved himself back off Aramis’ chest and held up a warning finger. 

“You don’t have the slightest bit of interest in me nor in any other man in Paris. Your spite is steering your impulses and if you’re not careful you’ll try to play games with the wrong person and the consequences will be more serious than just a shove against a wall.”

Aramis looked past the finger and met Athos’ steely glare with one of his own, all pretences and niceties lost to a sullen anger. If it seemed like the moment might descend into a fight, the aggression was dimmed the moment Aramis dropped his head down onto his chest and covered his face with his good hand. 

It seemed prudent to wait, but when Aramis showed no signs of emerging from behind his leather glove, Athos sighed and moved forward, planting a fist onto the wall beside Aramis’ head then leaning in so their faces were close. 

Athos’ voice was low but firm.

“You are one of my dearest friends and I love you, I’ve missed you terribly, and I will support you through this trying time, but one thing I will _not_ do is stand by and watch you self-destruct and indulge yourself in spiteful games which hurt you and everyone else you draw into them.”

“I’m sorry,” said Aramis in a barely audible whisper. “I’m so lost, Athos.”

Athos sighed, then opened his fist and stroked his fingers down through Aramis’ hair. 

“I know you are,” he said, resisting the urge to wipe away the tears he knew were falling. “But I think if you were to speak to Porthos and clear your differences then ….”

There was a noise of distress as Athos was pushed back, then he watched as Aramis turned into the wall to wipe away his tears then curled back around to face him, streaks of distress still apparent on his cheeks. 

“We will continue our day as we intended,” announced Aramis formally with a sniff and a weak smile, “We will drink and eat and I will forgo all games and in return you will promise to stop trying to push for any kind of reconciliation where one is absolutely not wanted or sought after.”

In lieu of acquiescing, Athos merely gave Aramis a dubious stare as he pushed off the wall and began to walk off. When Athos didn’t immediately follow, Aramis paused.

“You can come with me under my terms or you can return alone,” he said, not looking back or turning around. “I am truly sorry for making unseemly suggestions to you. You are completely blameless in this matter and it was beneath me to do that to you.” 

Now Aramis turned and faced Athos. He shrugged and bit his lip as his face turned towards the sky. 

“I’ve done a lot of things lately which would ordinarily be well beneath me. I did what I had to do and now I can’t go back, I seem wholly unable to go forward and my head is as scrambled as my heart. But all I truly want from you, _need_ from you, my dear Athos, is to divert my attentions for today and let me drown in your company, for - as you have witnessed - my own is faring quite poorly of late.”

Aramis held out his good arm for Athos and there was no hesitation as he stepped forward and slung his own arm carefully over Aramis’ shoulder. 

“The days are dark indeed when people find themselves seeking me out to lighten their mood.”

 

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

“Go on, join them! I don’t mind, honestly.”

Porthos stared again at the long table in the corner of the inn where a few familiar faces sat scrutinising their companions almost as hawkishly as they studied their hand of cards. This was not The Wren but nevertheless he’d sat at card tables with those men many times before, and had cleaned up the winnings by both legitimate and not so straightforward means. 

He shook his head and gave d’Artagnan an apologetic shrug. 

“For some reason it don’t interest me right now.”

Porthos studied d’Artagnan for signs of sympathy, ready to bat them all away, but the Gascon merely returned his shrug and finished the last of his wine. 

The door at the main entrance opened and Porthos tensed as two figures entered. When he failed to recognise them he relaxed, but on looking up he found d’Artagnan grinning at him as he topped up both their glasses. 

“What’re you smilin’ at?”

“Your lack of trust.”

Porthos merely grunted, which made d’Artagnan laugh again and clink their glasses together. 

“I am overjoyed to have you back, my friend. I wouldn’t dare do anything to scare you away. So to save you from getting ready to flee every time someone comes in the door, let me reassure you that you have no need to fear meeting anyone here that you don’t want to.”

Porthos grunted again and narrowed his eyes. 

“You got it all worked out, have ya?”

“Athos and I have co-ordinated our movements for today, yes.”

“Keepin’ us away from each other.”

“Tell me if it’s not what you want?”

“Oh, it’s what I want, alright.”

“Then relax, please. I know this place isn’t quite as familiar or accommodating as The Wren but it will have to do for now, at least until I can safely go back there.”

“Ey? What’s that? You’re banned from The Wren?” 

D’Artagnan made a face at the sudden interest. 

“Not banned, no, but that unfortunate incident I mentioned which was witnessed by the Red Guards there some months ago resulted in me spending some quality time in the palace dungeon.”

“Hah! That’s my boy!” Porthos’ demeanour immediately brightened. “This is a tale I need to distract me. What exactly did you do?”

“Absolutely nothing, of course, but that resulted in the Red Guards taking exception to the nothing that I was doing and by the time Treville secured both my head and my release, the Red Guards had more or less taken up residence at The Wren and it’s become something of a stronghold for them, unfortunately.”

Frowning, Porthos looked around the tavern. 

“This is passable but The Wren is ours! Always has been. We can’t have that scum claiming it as their own.”

Sighing, d’Artagnan shook his head. 

“Unfortunately, we’ve not had the impetus to take it back. We’ve been under strict instructions from Treville not to cause any drama, and to be honest, Athos and I, well, we’ve not really had the drive and motivation we would normally possess to …..”

Porthos shook his head at the apologetic look d’Artagnan gave him as his words tapered off. 

“Nah, you don’t have to explain. I get it, I really do.”

D’Artagnan nodded then stared at Porthos, studying the way he still looked around, on edge, unsettled, ill at ease. He reached across and put his hand over Porthos’.

“Do you trust me?”

Porthos looked at him, surprised. 

“Of course.”

d’Artagnan leaned in and took Porthos’ other hand in his, then repeated his question. 

“Do you trust me?”

Porthos intended to repeat his answer but something about the moment, the intimacy, the sincerity, made the words catch in his throat. He was back in Paris, back at the garrison, back in an inn, which wasn’t The Wren, not yet, but was still familiar enough, and he was sitting not with a stranger or gaggle of minions catering to their fight champion, but with a friend, a true friend. D’Artagnan, who would die for him, who he would die for. Who was holding his hands now, radiating comfort and trust and reassuring him that all would turn out for the better, even though Porthos knew he couldn’t promise that. Nobody could. Not really. But it gave him some hope, some comfort, just to be back here, back with a friend, back with someone who loved him, even if it wasn’t quite the right person and the right sort of love he really craved, for the only one who could offer him that was …. 

“Porthos?” 

He blinked and found with some surprise that his eyes had filled with tears, which now fell down and splashed off the stark old bench.

Pulling his hands free, Porthos sniffed and roughly wiped his face dry with his palms, growling out an apology as he quickly refilled their glasses. 

He ignored the damnably knowing look d’Artagnan was giving him for as long as he could, before he finally had to meet his eyes. 

“You haven’t answered me properly yet. Do you trust me, Porthos?”

“I do,” said Porthos, and he said it with feeling and he meant it. 

D’Artagnan beamed. 

“Good. Because everything will turn out fine.

 

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Despite Athos assuring Aramis that Porthos would definitely not be at The Wren if they went there, Aramis spent the whole day refusing to set foot in the establishment. If they did sit and drink, it was at an inn far from the garrison, far from The Wren, always outside, so Aramis could have a clear view of anyone – a particular anyone - approaching them and despite Athos doing his best to be an engaging, effusive companion, Aramis’ demeanour seemed to easily slide into blackness, his despair palpable. 

“I said would you like to return now,” repeated Athos, his voice slightly more forceful this time. 

Aramis blinked and looked at him, then blinked another few times, thoughts clearly elsewhere, where they’d hovered all throughout the day. 

“Come, friend, let me take you home,” said Athos, rising and gently helping Aramis up by his arm. 

Aramis acquiesced but said nothing, his earlier attempts at being cheery, positive and non-caring well buried now. 

It was only as they began the long walk back to the garrison. that Aramis suddenly slowed to a halt and hung his head, making Athos backtrack and put a concerned hand on his shoulder. 

“What is it? Is it your arm? Are you unwell?”

There was no reply, but the way Aramis put a hand over his eyes then swayed alarmingly caused Athos to tighten the grip on his shoulder. 

“I cannot do this.”

Athos steadied him with a second hand but deemed it best to keep quiet. He was finally rewarded with a soft groan. 

“What am I now, Athos?”

“What you’ve always been.”

“No, no, I cannot ever be the same again.”

Kissing into Aramis’ hair, and making no comment about the tears he knew were falling again, Athos drew him into a one-sided hug then gently urged him to begin walking.

“Come, let me help you.”

“I am beyond helping. Beyond fixing. I am nothing.”

“You are exhausted and your emotions are spent from months of worry and heartache. But I am here, d’Artagnan is here, Treville is here and if you trust us, everything will turn out fine.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“No, but I can tell you that we all have a very vested interest in repairing broken bodies and broken hearts when they belong to our friends.”

“Athos ….”

“Shhhh, Aramis … if you do nothing else today, please just trust me.”

 

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

It was fate perhaps? Or a terrible misaligning of the stars which caused such problematic timing. 

For as Aramis was being gently guided along the muddy Paris streets by Athos, trying to regain some composure, banishing the dark, fearful thoughts that had lived inside him for so long, he found himself being abruptly steered to the right as one of the old inns regurgitated a gaggle of patrons into their path. 

Being thoroughly supported and guided as he was, Aramis may not have even thought to look up were it not for the fact that Athos’ grip on his arm suddenly tightened considerably. That, and he heard an all-too familiar voice.

“Athos!”

“Porthos!” 

Even though Aramis had spent the entire day tensing at the thought of possibly encountering Porthos, now it had actually happened, he could only stare – and try to glare – at him in shock. 

Porthos looked no less alarmed, but he recovered quickly, folded his arms in a tight muscled bunch across his chest and puffed his cheeks out in annoyance. 

Athos directed a cross scowl at a sheepish d’Artagnan, who shrugged and looked to the heavens as if they would explain the terrible timing of it all. He gave Athos another apologetic look then put a guiding arm around Porthos.

“Gentlemen, I think it’s best if we were on our way.”

But as Porthos began to let himself be steered away, he abruptly stopped, held rigid for a moment, then turned slowly, a breath of outrage barely held back even as he ground out, “What did you say?”

He was directing this at Aramis, that was clear, and both Athos and d’Artagnan scurried forward to place themselves between them to minimise the potential aggression of the moment. 

“Come, let us go this way,” advised Athos hurriedly, trying unsuccessfully to turn Aramis by his shoulder. But Aramis stood his ground and glared at Porthos. 

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me properly, so I shall repeat it for all to hear …. I agreed with d’Artagnan that it was definitely best if you once again turned and fled.”

“Nobody’s fleeing. I’m not fleeing. I’m not goin’ anywhere,” spat out Porthos as he took a menacing step forward. 

“Gentlemen, please,” implored d’Artagnan, gripping Porthos’ arm tighter and trying without luck to draw him away from Aramis, who smiled sourly then nodded and stepped forward, licking his lips. 

“You don’t intimidate me,” said Aramis with a dangerous hiss, shaking the tenseness out of his body and hovering a gloved hand over the hilt of his sword.

“This is madness, step back immediately,” ordered Athos, but his placating hand was roughly pushed away by Aramis, whose expression was now grim and resolved. 

Porthos grinned and growled at the same time, which was possibly the most threatening combination of expressions d’Artagnan had ever witnessed as he tried to stop him from pressing forward. 

“Please, please, Porthos, think what you’re doing!”

“Oh, I know what I’m about to do. It’s been a long time comin’ and it’s gonna give me a hell of a lot o’ satisfaction.”

A buoyant crowd was gathering, always up to viewing a good fight, especially one so rare as two musketeers facing off. 

“We cannot do this here,” hissed Athos. “We will be arrested if there is brawling.”

“Let them come and get me,” growled Porthos, “I ain’t afraid of them and I ‘specially ain’t afraid o’ you,” he said, stabbing a finger at Aramis as the last word was shouted out.

“At last, something we agree on,” said Aramis, his voice now dangerously even and low. 

Athos stepped between them now, holding up hands both pacifying and threatening. 

“I will not let you fight each other. Not here, not anywhere. If you cannot cease this animosity for your own sakes then at least think of d’Artagnan. If he is caught fighting when away from duty even Treville would not be able to save him from the gallows. 

“Then you’d both better leave us to it and get out o’ our way,” sneered Porthos, edging forward with his arms raised at his sides, hands clenching in anger, ready and primed. 

“Porthos, I said no!”

But Athos was firmly pushed aside.

“Aramis? Please don’t do this!”

D’Artagnan’s plead received no verbal reply. Aramis merely shook his head angrily and stepped around him to face Porthos. 

A lot of things happened at once. 

As Porthos stepped forward, Aramis drew his sword with his good hand, which heightened Porthos’ rage even further and caused his lips to curl in a caustic sneer. 

“You think a lousy sword will stop me? You think my ribs'll make my hits softer? You think I’ll hold back just because your sword arm is broken?” he roared, stomping forward. “I know you can fight just as good with your other arm.”

Aramis drew his sword up but it had barely been directed at Porthos’ chest before it was sent flying across the road by a giant gloved hand. 

That should have caused Aramis to panic but instead he used the newly empty hand to ball into a fist and catch Porthos on the jaw with a nasty upper.

Porthos stopped but did little more than shake his head at the punch. However Aramis’ follow up kick to his nether region did cause him to ‘Oof’ loudly and bend double. 

But only for an instant. 

Before Aramis could step back to a safe distance, a hefty leathered hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. 

The mere fact that Porthos was touching him sent Aramis wild with anger. He kicked Porthos’ right knee even as Porthos’ fist connected with his left cheek. 

Athos tried to intervene and received an elbow to the jaw which sent him reeling back. 

Porthos grabbed Aramis’ broken arm to stop him pulling away and Aramis howled with what may have been pain or rage or both. 

The noise was stopped as he received a rough and hefty backhand from Porthos, but that didn’t stop him from slamming his head into Porthos’ nose. 

The resulting blood was incredibly satisfying, even as he tried unsuccessfully to avoid the large fist hurtling towards his own nose. 

D’Artagnan received the same treatment as Athos as he tried to pull Porthos away, but he dived back to try to put himself between them, shouting their names and all the time calling for sense and calm. 

Aramis was vaguely aware of the crowd moving and parting and of the fear in Athos’ voice as he shouted warnings for them to stop. 

Red and black and gleaming silver metal swirled around them as many strong hands finally did manage to rip Porthos away as he cursed and hurled abuse.

“Oh this is not good,” murmured d’Artagnan as he wiped blood away from his cut cheek and three Red Guards secured his arms and dragged him back. 

“He was trying to break up a disagreement,” announced Athos in his most commanding voice as he stepped forward and tried to separate d'Artagnan from the men holding him, but the Red Guards merely scoffed, pushed him out of the way and sent him knowing grins. 

“You was told what would ‘appen,” said one who Aramis didn’t recognise but who seemed to be in charge.

“You cannot arrest him! d’Artagnan was not fighting!”

Athos was yelling in alarm now and he made to pull d’Artagnan free but was pushed back again, this time with a sword put to his throat. 

“The blood on his cheek says you ain’t tellin’ the truth, an’ if you wanna keep this up you’ll be joinin’ him at the end of a rope.”

Aramis looked at Porthos in alarm. 

Porthos was already staring at him, stunned and sorry, then they both stepped forward to try to intervene. 

“The fault was with us, monsieur,” said Aramis, his tone smooth and even, as conciliatory as the false smile he presented as he approached the leader. “We are best friends, scrapping in jest you understand."

“Oh, I understand perfectly, Monsieur Aramis,” leered the guard as he gestured towards Aramis’ broken arm. “We all understand ‘cos the Cardinal likes to know things about you lot and he told us ‘bout you an’ the big lug over there havin’ an almighty row. Told us to keep an eye on you, but didn’t know it’d come to blows here in Paris though. He’ll be thrilled with this latest development.”

“d’Artagnan wasn’t at fault,” confirmed Porthos, even as he wiped his bloody nose with a ‘kerchief. “If you wanna lock anyone up, let it be us. Leave the lad out of it.”

The man and his cohorts laughed and it wasn’t a pleasant sound. 

“Locking you up would be my pleasure, believe me, but the Cardinal has his heart set on a different scalp. Or to be more specific, a different head. This one right here,” he chortled as he roughly yanked up d’Artagnan’s head by a handful of hair. “The King promised the Cardinal that he’d let him do what may if this one was caught fightin’ again. Not even your beloved Captain will be able to sweet talk the King into lettin’ him go this time. Now outta my way. I got some lovely gallows to prepare.”

Athos drew his sword, but they were outnumbered eight to three; two if you counted the fact that Aramis’ sword was lying over the other side of the street where Porthos had swatted it away. 

“Don’t tempt me. You’re next on the list I believe. Give me just one little reason and I’ll gladly make it a double hangin’.”

Porthos and Aramis both closed in and stood beside Athos, a supportive, but severely outnumbered trio. d’Artagnan gave them one last desperate look as he was dragged away. 

Then he was gone. 

 

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Athos reached the garrison well before Aramis and Porthos. Neither of them was in good shape enough to sprint at his pace and by the time they collapsed against the garrison arch Athos was in the midst of a heated discussion with Treville on the balcony.

Curious musketeers stared up at the animated discussions, then back to where Aramis and Porthos panted against the old stone walls. As the gist of what had happened became clear, the glances in their direction became less curious and decidedly more unfriendly and angry. Porthos pushed off the wall and began to make his way to the base of the steps, Aramis not far behind. But Treville marched down the steps and pushed them both aside, yelling for his horse to be readied all the while. 

It was only when he was mounted that he looked directly at them. His glare and his words were equally icy.

“You were both told about d’Artagnan’s issues with the Red Guard and what they would do should he be caught fighting outside his duties.”

“But he wasn’t fighting!” protested Porthos. 

Aramis took a step forward, “He was trying to stop us from ….”

“Athos told me. And if … _if_ …. I can persuade the King to pardon d’Artagnan a second time then we will all sit down and you two can explain to me exactly what the hell you think you’re achieving with your absurd squabble.”

Before they could do or say anything more Treville had ridden off at some considerable pace through the arch. 

Unwilling to speak to each other, and with the fellow musketeers glaring at them and giving them a wide berth, they both found themselves looking up to Treville’s balcony for guidance. 

Athos looked murderous and the look only intensified as he stomped down the steps towards them. As he strode off the last one he turned away from them and ground out a gravelly, “Come with me,” which they both did silently and obediently. 

They were led across the yard to a dark corridor behind the stables, its floor lined with huge old, cold flagstones. Two dank rooms on either side of the corridor were used as cells every now and then when such a purpose was necessary, although they more commonly held various pieces of saddlery and tools that the blacksmith wanted out of his way. 

The end room was the largest cell, but over the years the blacksmith had commandeered it bit by bit until it was ostensibly his room, to be used for ‘moments of peace’ as he liked to call it, or ‘napping’ as everyone else understood it to be. 

The blacksmith was a ferocious entity who did his job well and in angry silence and not even Treville had the temerity to try to take back the cell for its original purpose. 

Athos pushed open the door to the blacksmith’s room with some force. 

As Porthos and Aramis entered they found a cell no less cold and dank in construction as the other cells, but one which had been decorated – in loose terms – with a large solid bed, a long hefty oak table, and a ratty sofa which must have been quite lush at one point in its long life as the rich, worn patterns woven into it attested. 

The hearth was as impressive as any in the garrison, even Treville’s, befitting of an angry blacksmith, and were it not for the strong bars embedded in the small window of the cell and an even smaller slot in the huge door one could almost mistake this for a normal standard of Paris lodging. 

Porthos looked around, frowning slightly, mildly curious despite anticipating a harsh dressing down from Athos. 

Aramis just held back near the door and stared grimly at the floor. 

“I warned you,” growled Athos, stabbing an accusatory finger at Aramis. “You knew the severity of the situation with d’Artagnan. 

Aramis didn’t raise his head, but he nodded and stabbed a flagstone with the toe of his boot. 

The finger shifted to point at Porthos, who was already nodding and looking contrite. 

“I heard all the details from d’Artagnan.”

Athos planted both hands on his hips and glowered at them. 

“So you both heard what happened and the threat that hovers over dArtagnan’s head, yet clearly neither of you listened, really listened to the import of what was said, otherwise d’Artagnan would not now be languishing in a dungeon preparing for his execution.” 

Aramis looked ashen at the words.

Porthos let out a loud breath and stepped forward.

“They wouldn’t really hang him, would they?

“That was just an idle threat, surely,” said Aramis. 

“You both think the Cardinal deals in idle threats, do you?” The undertone of Athos’ voice was dangerous. 

“Surely Treville can speak to the King and get a reprieve?” Aramis was almost stammering.

Athos regarded him, deathly grim. “There has already been a reprieve. A stay of execution. That was some months ago and it was d’Artagnan’s last chance.” He jabbed a finger angrily at each of them and said with a low, dangerous venom, “Which bit of us explaining that to both of you before you decided to fight in the streets in full view of the Red Guards didn’t you understand?”

“Athos, we didn’t think …”

“Oh, I realise that,” said Athos, cutting Porthos short. “You are my brothers and I love you, but I will never forgive either of you if d’Artagnan is put to the gallows because of your stupidity and utter stubbornness and inability to think of anyone else other than yourselves.”

“We’ll go and explain to the King …”

“Yes,” agreed Porthos, “We’ll go, together and tell him everythin’. Offer up ourselves instead of the lad.”

Aramis nodded, his tone desperate, “He can lock us up instead. Anything.”

“Please Athos,” pleaded Porthos, “Let us fix this.”

“You two honestly think you can convince the King and the Cardinal to not act on their threats? The two of you combined are unable to summon up the skills or willpower to speak a civil sentence to one another, yet you’re confident about negotiating with royalty? 

“We’re so sorry, Athos,” said Aramis as he followed him to the door, but before either he or Porthos could exit the room the large steel door was slammed shut and bolted shut from the outside. 

“What the ...!” began Porthos, initially puzzled, but increasingly alarmed as he rattled the door to test its ( considerable) strength. “Athos? What the hell are you doing?”

“I am keeping you out of my way while I try to rescue d’Artagnan, and doing what I should have done from the beginning, which is to lock you in a room together to force you to settle your grievances. 

“Athos, you can’t!” Protested Aramis, “Let me out!” 

But Athos had strode away and was out of sight even as Porthos slammed a shoulder against the door in vain protest.

It was going to be a very long afternoon. 

 

oooooooooooooooo


	7. Touch Of Luck

Porthos bent to pick up the bandages then abruptly stiffened and hissed in pain. 

It had been two hours. 

Initially he’d paced. Then he leaned against the furthest wall from where Aramis was leaning, pointedly not facing in Aramis’ direction. Then he paced some more, but things were beginning to ache and blood was drying and his ribs were a constant bother and eventually, he conceded defeat and sat so he could try to at least bind his ribs and try to stifle the pain. The first couple of tries hadn’t been very successful but Porthos had managed to try and fail without saying a word or making a sound. That was his second objective after the actual bandaging. 

Now he attempted it again, this time snatching up the end of the cloth and swearing under his breath as he sat back on the bed. 

Porthos began to lift up his shirt but only got so far before he cursed – loudly this time – and threw the bandages back down to the floor, shooting a savage glare over at Aramis. 

“Don’t even think about comin’ over here.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” murmured Aramis, not even bothering to look up from where he had his head resting against the wall. “In fact I’d rather intimately bathe the Cardinal than come anywhere near you. I’d hate for you to believe you were worthy of _anything_ , including my attentions.”

Porthos growled. Aramis pursed his lips into a thin, tense line and stared daggers at the floor, all the while stroking his tightly bandaged right elbow with his left hand. 

They stewed in silence for a good half hour longer, bandages abandoned, anger reunited, each letting their resentments fester alongside their physical wounds. 

 

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

“Oh for crying out loud, Aramis, leave it before you ….” Porthos bit back his prophetic words as Aramis grunted and withdrew his hand from the glass on the floor, bright red stains of blood already blooming on the skin of his left hand. 

Porthos had eyeballed him all the way through the process as Aramis tried to pour himself a glass of wine. 

He had silently berated Aramis for using a glass cup as a vessel rather than a tin cup. Was it not obvious that the tin wouldn’t break if it were to be knocked over? Why would Aramis try to hold the cup in his bad hand rather than sitting it on the table and using his good hand to manoeuvre the jug?

All these things were obvious, but obviously not things that Porthos could point out aloud to Aramis. 

So he sat, he watched, he boiled with anger at all the ways Aramis was deliberately making things hard – probably just to annoy him if truth be told. 

And when the predictable happened – as Porthos had silently foretold – and the glass was fumbled and dropped and glass shattered into large and splintered pieces all over the blacksmith’s hard stone floor, it was all Porthos could do to keep his reaction down to a mean growl. 

It was Aramis’ turn to swear now, and he did so with gusto, especially after he stooped to pick up some of the largest pieces of glass and lost his balance as he bent forward. His hand clenched involuntarily and he squawked in alarm and dropped the glass he’d been gathering. 

After the warning, Porthos could keep his counsel no longer.

“Aramis…”

“Shut up.”

 _“Aramis!”_

_“Fuck!”_ Aramis growled, sucking at the oozing blood then shaking his hand vigorously to try to alleviate the worsening sting.

“Don’t suck at the wound, it might still have glass in it! Christ almighty, you test my patience. Look at me. Aramis! I said look at me!”

Such was the authority in Porthos’ tone that Aramis did, albeit briefly and begrudgingly and with a heavy air of grim resentment. 

Porthos was glaring back at him, eyes dark and angry. He gestured at the bandages he’d thrown on on the floor some time earlier. 

“Bring ‘em here and fetch that bowl of water by the window.”

Porthos thought he sounded quite reasonable and calm, but when Aramis failed to move he added, “Fine! I’ll stay stuck here in this position unable to move because of the ribs that you broke and I’ll let you bleed out over there because you’re too stubborn to let anyone else help.”

“Not anyone else, just you,” muttered Aramis, but after a long period of standing and staring at the bandages and inspecting the damage to his hand he did as he was bade and sat down carefully on the other end of the bed as far away from Porthos as possible, holding the bowl of water in his lap and dropping the bandages on the bed between them.

Porthos grunted his displeasure and jabbed a finger at the midway point on the bed between them. 

“Either sit there where I can reach you or we’re not doin’ this at all.”

Aramis stood and stomped away, clearly opting for the latter. 

“You’re a stupid, stubborn, asshole of a …” began Porthos.

Aramis spun around, furious.

“You left me,” he spat, his whole body shaking with anger.

“We’re really gonna do this _now_ , are we?” Porthos matched his fury with a censorious shake of his head. “Okay, your call. Let’s do this. ‘Cos it looks like I have to remind you that _you_ left _me first. Remember?”_

__

__

The response was instant, a long-awaited rejoinder, firm, angry, rehearsed. 

“ _I_ didn’t slink off into the night. When I decided to go to Douai I told you exactly where I was going and why.”

Porthos jabbed a finger across the room, anger rising when Aramis refused to look at him. 

“And you honestly think tellin’ you my plans would have made things any better? Any easier for either of us? ‘Cos in case you haven’t noticed, we’re talkin’ right now and it ain't solvin’ anythin’.”

“If you’d spoken with me I would have made you see reason, convinced you not to leave.”

“Exactly.”

This time it was Porthos who turned away, hand splayed across his aching chest, jaw tilting up defiantly, eyes shining bright with emotion. 

Himself not observed now, Aramis took the moment to study Porthos, the man he knew better than anyone yet whose unexpected actions and reactions had confounded and floored him so wholly that he’d found himself questioning how deep their friendship really ran. 

It was that, Aramis knew, which really hurt him the most. His lack of anticipation for the actions of his fondest brother, and Porthos’ own apparent lack of insight into exactly how greatly his leaving would affect Aramis. His inability to believe that Aramis would keep on wanting him if his own position ever changed or lessened.

As Aramis watched, Porthos shut his eyes and his mouth wobbled and quirked down. He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to compose himself, hand clutching the ragged loosening bandages on his chest as he tried to rise before the pain kept him down. 

Aramis swore and picked up the fresh bandages then paced across the room to a small three-legged stool in the corner. He kicked it across the floor in front of him, trying to avoid disturbing the broken glass, until the stool wobbled and settled in front of Porthos, then he straddled and sat down on it, scowling at Porthos as he growled and tried to move away.

“Damn you,” muttered Aramis. “ _Sit still!_ ” he barked, as Porthos began to shuffle back across the bed. 

He reached to remove Porthos’ hand from his chest only to have his own hand grabbed and roughly pushed away. 

“Leave me alone,” snarled Porthos, holding up a warning finger. 

Then they both looked at his finger. It was splattered with blood. As was the palm of his hand – the one which had grabbed Aramis’. 

Aramis looked down at his own hand, frowning at the blood which was now seeping through the fresh bandages intended for Porthos’ chest. 

“Someone give me strength. I told you not to try to pick up the glass. Now you don’t have any good hands.”

“Well whose fault is that?”

This time it was Aramis who tried to get up and leave but two strong hands reached out and held him down firmly by his forearms. 

“Fuck, what a mess,” grumbled Porthos, still holding Aramis and carefully watching the bloodying bandages rather than Aramis’ face. 

He nodded at the bowl of water, which sat just out of his reach. 

“Get that for me. I’ll clean up the cuts on your hand then you can bandage my ribs. Neither of us will be good for anything otherwise.”

Aramis said nothing but did as directed and rested the bowl on his knees as Porthos took his hand and studied it carefully. He shook his head at the long, deep cut on Aramis’ palm which still oozed blood, and scowled with disapproval, but offered no further verbal admonishments. 

They both watched as Porthos carefully turned Aramis’ hand in his, sliding a finger lightly over the cuts to try to feel any glass that might be in the wounds. How often had they done this for pleasure? Sated, bodies throbbing from exertion, lying in each other’s arms, Porthos taking Aramis’ hand as he so often did, kissing it, tracing every line, every scar, every knuckle and nail, dark skin over light, marvelling at the contrast, yet at the rightness of it all. 

“Definitely gonna have to bandage it,” Porthos concluded, not letting go of Aramis’ hand even as he tried to draw it away.

“If you do that I won’t have any hands free to do anything.”

“Can’t be helped.”

“Well, don’t do it too tight. And don’t make the bandage too bulky. Allow me some freedom of movement.”

“Let’s just hope I don’t have to stitch you.”

Aramis looked up in alarm and there was the hint of something in Porthos’ tone, even though he firmly kept his gaze on the task.

They both knew that Porthos had stitched Aramis once. Once and only once. 

To quote Aramis: “A drunken bear using a tree trunk as a needle could have managed infinitely more delicate stitches!”

Neither spoke as Porthos wrapped Aramis’ hand, but the mention of the stitching kept both their minds occupied with past memories. Shared memories. Not entirely bad memories. 

To be honest, the stitching hadn’t been awful. It wasn’t to Aramis’ high, precise, standards of course, but it was relatively neat, not overly ragged, and although it had hurt more than Aramis deemed it should, the amount of noise he made in protest was very out of proportion to the pain he’d actually felt. 

Porthos was fully aware of all this at the time, of course and he bore Aramis’ accusations, yowling and whining protests with amusement and very little sign of guilt or contriteness. 

Now, the tending was done, and received in complete silence. The bandage was cut and tied and Aramis was finally allowed to pull his hand back for inspection, working his fingers back and forth to ensure he could still grip and grasp. 

Satisfied, he put the bowl of water aside then Porthos cut the bloodied ends of the bandage off. 

When Aramis had a brief unguarded moment and met Porthos’ eyes, he huffed out a breath. 

“Stop it.”

“You need to be more specific if you want me to stop doing whatever it is that’s annoying you.”

“Just stop it.”

“What?”

Flustered, Aramis slid back the stool and tried to put some space between them. 

Porthos smiled bitterly.

“No thanks for fixin’ your good hand then?”

“I wouldn’t have broken the glass in the first place if you hadn’t angered me.”

“I’m not the only one who breaks things. You broke your promise not to poison me again.”

“You broke my wrist.”

“You broke my ribs.”

“You broke my heart.”

They both looked up, shocked. Aramis swallowed and seemed to gulp for air. It was clear that he hadn’t meant to go that far with his accusations. 

Porthos narrowed his eyes at the declaration and scoffed, chuffing a rough, disbelieving laugh as if dismissing the claim as yet another Aramis histrionic. But when Aramis didn’t join in with the joke and merely tipped his head away to hide his sourness, Porthos averted his eyes and found something of interest in the offcuts of bandages he wound and unwound methodically around his fingers. His chest felt constricted in a way that he couldn’t blame on broken ribs. 

The silence continued, Porthos grew restless and he could feel a ball of panic spinning and growing from within, the finality now only sitting just below the surface, scratching to be heard. He could hide himself in his room and dream of reunions or retributions and embrace both ideas equally, secure in knowing that he would survive and move forward with a new confidence. But to have to deal with the actuality of it now – to have to speak truths to Aramis and see and hear the raw hurt flung between them – it was too much. 

“So this is us finished, is it? Is that what you want?”

Aramis dropped his head into his hands, shoulders tense and fingers clawing at his hair. 

Porthos felt his face screw up and couldn’t disguise the raw emotion in his voice.

“After everything we’ve been through, yeah, this is you an’ me, done?”

He stood up quickly, rage rising, but just as quickly clutched his chest and gritted his teeth in pain, the ribs not letting him forget them. 

“Serves you right. This is all your doing, not mine,” insisted Aramis as he angrily snatched the bandages from Porthos and gestured for him to stay standing and remove his shirt. 

The attempt to do it alone was valiant but unsuccessful and they both made grunts of annoyance as Aramis had to help Porthos escape from the tangle of his shirt. 

They’d done this dozens of times before to each other, but never before had it seemed such a chore. Even with an injury, usually, the removal of a shirt and one of them having to stand there while the other bound their naked chest with bandages was a not wholly unpleasant affair, and inevitably led to other, less medicinal practices being undertaken. 

In fact Porthos couldn’t recall the last time he’d been bandaged by Aramis and it hadn’t led to copious un-prescribed exertions. 

He stared straight ahead, arms raised as high as his ribs would allow, then staunchly refused to look at or acknowledge Aramis, even when the bandages were wrapped just that little bit rougher and tighter than was comfortable or usual. 

It was only when Aramis went to tuck in the ends of the bandages and Porthos sensed him faltering that he finally looked up and saw the conflict. 

“Aramis?” 

Aramis couldn’t meet his eyes but his fingertips held the ends of the bandage and he seemed unable to let them go. 

“’Mis?” Porthos ventured.

Aramis met his eyes briefly then his face began to crumple and he tried to move away, but Porthos grabbed his bandaged hand and held it tight. He stared up, imploring. 

“Is this really what you want?”

“It’s what we both want,” hissed Aramis, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at Porthos and Porthos only tightened the grip on his hand, so he was unable to move away. 

“Is it?”

Aramis swallowed and tried in vain to pull away. 

“Let me go.”

“Not until you talk to me.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Then why bring me back, huh? If you didn’t care, if you didn’t want to speak to me or ever see me again then why’d you bring me back here to Paris?”

“You belong here! You’re a musketeer, you’ll always be a musketeer.”

“Yet now I’m back you’re full o’ hate for me.”

A key scraped and clanked then suddenly the large old door swung open. 

Treville strode in and cast a severe, searching eye over them, as he did with every person and situation he encountered. 

Porthos let go of Aramis’ hand and Aramis finally let his fingers fall away from Porthos’ bandages. 

“Still caught up in your own personal tragedies, I see,” said Treville, with not a small slant of sarcasm and disappointment. 

“I ….”

“We …”

“It was a statement, not a question. Neither of you even heard me approach until I was turning the key. Too busy trying to hurt and be hurt. Well, it won’t be of much consequence for you to learn then that in his determination to fight for the release of d’Artagnan, Athos too is now a guest of His Majesty’s dungeons.”

“What?”

“ _No!_ ”

“Ahh, and suddenly they decide to show some interest.”

“What’s happened?” asked Aramis, looking pale but brave enough to put forward a question. 

Treville stared at him and for a moment it seemed doubtful that he would answer, but then he glanced at Porthos and sighed heavily, his hands dropping from his hips to wipe across his forehead. 

“Athos and I approached the King. It was against my better judgment that he was there, but he insisted and I didn’t think he would jeopardise everything by attacking the ….”

Both musketeers gasped loudly.

“He attacked the _King_?” 

Porthos was incredulous. 

“No, not the King.” Treville allowed himself a small, bitter smile. “If he’d done that I would be bringing you his head on a plate, not telling you of his incarceration. No, unfortunately, my audience with his majesty was interrupted by Athos stepping up and challenging ….” 

“The Cardinal.”

Treville nodded at Porthos. 

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“You initially said that Athos attacked. Now you’re saying he challenged. One is a hanging offence, the other worthy of some time spent being incarcerated somewhere vile and unpleasant, but usually still with one’s head still attached. Which is it?”

Aramis’ curtness was acknowledged with a piercing stare, but Treville still answered his question.

“I have bargained for Athos’ life, but because this indiscretion was aimed at The Cardinal, he is no doubt, as we speak, trying to overturn what he deems to be the King’s overly generous ruling. 

“We gotta get to the Palace. Save d’Artagnan, make sure Athos doesn’t join him.”

“The two of you have enough to answer for already, don’t you think?”

Treville’s tone and expression was dark but the piercing blue eyes glinted with anger as he tipped his chin accusingly at Porthos. 

“We are very contrite,” offered Aramis, stepping forward as well as closer to Porthos, as if trying to show some solidarity. “We will do anything we can to fix this situation.”

Treville scoffed and gestured to where they now stood, shoulder to shoulder. 

“This show of unity is all too late and even if there is a hint of sincerity behind your assertions, they are all too inadequate and if I cannot devise a way to save d’Artagnan’s head by negotiating with the King then I will have to resort to other measures and you two will spend the rest of your miserable lives having to live with the consequences of your ridiculous feud.”

“Sir, please!”

“Captain, no, let us help you…”

But Treville was stalking away, slamming the door open as he exited so it crashed back against the stone wall. Porthos and Aramis could only watch as he strode off, his back a solid leather-clad barrier of finality.

Aramis was still staring up the now-empty corridor when he was roughly pushed sideways. As he regained his balance, Porthos jabbed an angry finger at him. 

“I could fuckin’ kill you for this.”

“You’re seriously going to blame it all on me?”

“You could’ve left me there! I was perfectly happy doin’ what I was doin’. If you’d never come after me we’d never have fought, d’Artagnan would never have been arrested again, the King wouldn’t approve his hanging, Athos wouldn’t have attacked the Cardinal and none of this mess woulda happened.”

“If you’d never left in the first place I wouldn’t have had to go and find you to bring you back!”

“I’m not yours to bring back! I’m my own person. My faults are my own, my skills are my own. And you need to keep your distance because I’m gonna do everything I can to help d’Artagnan and Athos.”

“You’re going to march into the palace alone and demand their release, are you? Get yourself arrested and lined up for a lynching too?”

Porthos gave him a filthy look and stomped off through the door. 

“None of your business what I do.”

The volley of insults behind him indicated that Aramis may have thought otherwise, but Porthos didn’t care. He had no intention of going to the palace alone; all he had to do was recruit some help and formulate a plan. 

That may have seemed a straightforward task and one which, under normal circumstances, Porthos would have found simple. He’d been a musketeer, respected, revered even, and musketeers and cadets alike fell over themselves to assist him whenever he had asked for help. 

But that was before. 

Seven months was a long time it seemed and as he walked out into the sunlight and blinked to help his eyes adjust, Porthos looked around and saw more unfamiliar faces than ones he recognised. 

Instead of respect he saw suspicion and wariness. 

Nevertheless, he had a job to do and he knew that musketeers stuck together in times of crisis. 

Ignoring the screaming pain in his ribs, Porthos straightened as best he could and approached the largest group of men, around eight of them, sitting around the bench that had once been his settling place of choice. 

A few stood as he approached. 

One drew his sword. 

Porthos hissed his disapproval and gave that man his fiercest scowl. 

“Treville’s gone to the palace, yeah?”

A few stared at him, frowning, another two stood and backed off warily.

Huffing and straightening even more, Porthos repeated his question. 

“Captain Treville has gone to the palace, has he?”

 _Silence._

Irritated beyond belief, Porthos stepped forward and this time two more men drew their swords. 

“What is this?” scoffed Porthos, beginning to feel his blood boil. 

“Stand down, monsieur,” said one who Porthos did recognise.

“What is this, Roubert?”

“You tell us, Porthos. You’re the one accosting us.”

Chewing his lip, Porthos tried to settle his anger before he spoke. 

“You know ‘bout d’Artagnan?”

He could see from their expressions when he said the name that they did. 

“We know about d’Artagnan and we have just learned about Athos.”

“Right, then you know we gotta do something, right?”

Before Roubert answered, they were all distracted by some raised voices over by the garrison entrance. A musketeer had just pushed Aramis out of a circle of men, none of whom looked predisposed to defending him. 

Porthos didn’t care and used all his willpower to stop himself smirking. 

Served him right. 

Roubert seemed more concerned. He nodded to where Aramis was now having an increasingly heated conversation with a number of musketeers. 

“You both think you can suddenly appear back here in Paris, click your fingers and that we’ll all jump to attention and follow any orders you throw at us?”

“I think,” said Porthos tensely, carefully, “That all of you would like to help rescue your fellow musketeers.”

“Why should we do as you say?” asked a young sallow man who Porthos didn’t recognise. 

“Don’t you wanna help d’Artagnan and Athos?” growled Porthos. 

“We follow Captain Treville. He has told us to remain here until he has returned with news from the palace.”

“Well I think a few of us need to go and help him,” explained Porthos with a huff.

Not budging, Roubert crossed his arms. “He will ask us to help him when he is in need of help.” There was a pause then he added with narrowed eyes, “I’m guessing he neither asked you to accompany him, nor told you he would summon you later if he needed help.”

Porthos bristled and took a step forward. 

“That’s enough!” shouted Roubert as five men drew their weapons and began to close in on him. “He may not be a musketeer now, but he once was and we will not add to the Captain’s woes by participating in a fight.” 

“All I need is a few men to help me,” said Porthos, barely able to contain his anger or disbelief at the snub. 

But Roubert shook his head and signalled for the men to withdraw from the courtyard. 

“We will not disobey the Captain’s orders for you.” Then he looked over Porthos’ shoulder and added, “Nor you.”

When Porthos glanced behind him, Aramis was standing there, glaring grimly at Roubert. 

“I think you should both leave, monsieurs, as I cannot guarantee your safety should we get word that anything has befallen d’Artagnan and Athos. The Captain has deemed that you can take two horses and saddlery should you wish to ride out. I suggest you do so immediately and with speed.”

With a thousand thoughts going through his mind, Porthos did the one thing he usually did when faced with a multitude of options and a big dilemma. 

He looked at Aramis. 

Aramis was still staring at Roubert, expression grave and furious. 

As Porthos turned to him, Aramis dropped his gaze and let out a deep breath. Aramis studied the ground for a long time, then he seemed to steel himself and he looked up.

That was all it took. One brief glance and Porthos knew. 

He headed for the stables knowing that he was not going to try to rescue d’Artagnan and Athos alone after all. 

 

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Porthos had ridden along this tree-lined road countless times in his career as a musketeer. Usually he was accompanied by at least one other musketeer, or Treville, riding side by side in easy companionship. Most of the time he found himself with all three of his comrades and that, most of all, was when he felt the honour of being a musketeer the most. 

It wasn’t when he was inside the palace facing the King. Nor was it when he was standing guard in a gilt and mirrored palace hall, awaiting instructions. 

No, cantering along under this fine canopy of trees, the feather on his hat bursting out in all directions, trying to keep up, his armour polished just a tad more carefully than it would have been on a more standard day, the magnificence of the palace intermittently revealing itself from behind the tree trunks, people of all walks of life stepping back, some bowing, scared, some in awe, all knowing that here was one of the King’s special troop of musketeers, the best in all France. 

Now, his anticipation felt far from honourable. He looked down at his clothes and knew that the only pieces of musketeer garb he had left were his jacket and his hat. The rest was patched and won and borrowed and in the case of his trousers, stolen. His hat lacked its feather and looked very worse for wear. Nobody was going to be bowing to him today. 

Something else was different too. He may not have been riding alone, but there was no companionship or comfortable ease. From the moment he had ridden out of the garrison, Porthos had ridden single file, alone out in front, yet all too aware of the sound of a second horse and rider following behind him. 

Half way along the line of trees a track lead off to the left. It didn’t go far, just down to the river, but it was a track the musketeers knew well, as on many occasions they availed themselves of the river’s cool waters to rest their horses and indeed, themselves. On days where the King needed then didn’t need them an interminable number of times, it was also a place for them to hide out. Being close to the King but not too close to the King sometimes led to an easing of one’s anxiety. So said Athos. 

Porthos slowed and guided his horse down the side track, past a broken down cart and some giggling young maidens trying to help – or rather distract - the young carter to fix the huge splintered wheel. 

Ordinarily, Porthos and Aramis would have ridden leisurely past this scene. Porthos would have chuckled. Aramis would have doffed his hat at the young ladies. Then once past, Aramis would have remarked on how kind it was of the young ladies to offer to fix the splintered wheel with their bosoms rather than the usual tools of trade. Porthos would have let his laugh boom out over the fields and all would have been right with the world. 

_Nothing was right now._

Porthos alit slowly under the dappled shadows of a group of large elm trees, their usual place to rest. He didn’t bother to try to hide his groans of pain. 

_Everything hurt._

_Everything was wrong._

He was realising with a sinking heart that it was probably way easier to remain furious with Aramis than it was to find an awkward peace in order to do what they had to do to save their friends. 

Feeling more battered and weary than he had ever done in combat, Porthos clutched at his chest, wishing his ribs would magically heal, then without looking behind him he walked slowly down to face the lazy, ambling river. He was fairly sure that if he sat down he wouldn’t be able to get up again so he leaned heavily against one of the elm trees and shut his eyes to block out facing Aramis for just a second longer. 

Porthos couldn’t positively say that he didn’t doze off, as he jolted with alarm and scratched his cheek on the tree bark when Aramis spoke. 

“I said we have to address the situation at hand or we’ll lose the opportunity to rescue them.”

When Porthos looked up, Aramis wasn’t looking at him. He was facing the river, his injuries looking more raw and stark in the daylight than Porthos had remembered them.

He looked almost as tired as Porthos felt. 

“Nobody would help me,” said Aramis quietly. “And they wouldn’t help you either. But if we don’t act now then we will miss the moment when something can be done to help them.”

“I know,” was all Porthos could manage, resting his cheek back against the rough bark. 

“We have to help them, Porthos.”

That Aramis had uttered his name, not in anger, made Porthos turn his head. It had cost Aramis something to say that, Porthos could tell. When Aramis wrestled with his emotions the tic in his cheek fought a war with itself no matter how blank he managed to keep the rest of his demeanour. As he watched the dragonflies flit and float haphazardly over the surface of the water, Aramis was studying them as grimly and intently as he would a fatal wound on the battlefield. 

“This is all our fault, Porthos …”he began again, his voice on the verge of breaking. 

“I know,” replied Porthos, this time with more force and emphasis, “If Treville hasn’t managed to get ‘em out then there’s only you an’ me who can rescue ‘em.”

Clearly relieved at the actual intent having been spoken aloud, Aramis forcefully puffed out a breath of air then turned, leaned against the trunk on the other side of Porthos’ tree and looked back up the track and over to where the palace loomed on the horizon, gleaming buttery gold in the afternoon sun. 

Porthos watched Aramis carefully, then followed his gaze up at the palace. 

He went to push off the tree to adjust his position but had to suck in a breath at the pain it caused him. 

“We need a plan. One that takes broken ribs into account.”

Aramis was finally looking at him. Porthos gestured at his arm then at his face. 

“Broken ribs, broken arms and broken eye sockets.”

“The latter, no, not broken, but like yourself, I am not without pain.”

“I’ll make sure I do a more thorough job next time, “murmured Porthos. 

Normally that would have elicited a smile, but Aramis merely regarded him with an icy calm. 

“Don’t mistake this for anything more than a truce while we fix this situation that we inadvertently caused.”

Porthos huffed and hugged himself, shaking his head. 

“I’m not gonna forget what you did to me any time soon. The only reason I’m not standin’ here not throttlin’ you is ‘cos we have a job to do and we’re the best ones – the only ones – who can do it.”

Aramis absorbed that then nodded stiffly in agreement. He said no more, resuming his watch on the main road to the palace.

“So how we gonna do this, ‘ey?” asked Porthos eventually, squinting at the various travellers and officials moving at various paces towards and from the palace. “If the garrison wasn’t keen to help us, the Red Guards at the palace ain’t gonna let us waltz in there to ask questions.”

“We need Treville to tell us exactly where they are being held,” said Aramis. 

Porthos grunted. “Little likelihood of that. We’re lucky he even left the door of the cell open when he left. Don’t think he’s gonna be too pleased when he gets back to the garrison and hears we were tryin’ to recruit his men to help with a prison break.”

Shouldering himself away from the tree, Aramis narrowed his eyes and stared hard at the palace end of the road. 

“What do you see?” asked Porthos, slightly annoyed that Aramis’ eyesight was still sharper than his even when it was half closed and blacker than his fist.

And then Aramis smiled wryly as he pointed up at a small black carriage drawn by two large dark horses, with four more riders accompanying it rattling along at a fair pace away from the palace. 

“There,” he said, pointing, “They convey prisoners in that carriage.”

“Don’t mean anybody we know is in there.”

Aramis pointed back towards the palace where a rider on a white horse was approaching the carriage at some considerable pace. Just as he reached the back of the carriage two of the escorting riders turned and stopped him from going any further.

“We might not know for sure who is in that carriage, but in this time of such great import I cannot imagine that Treville would be trying to approach any prison carriage if it didn’t hold someone very important to him.”

Porthos nodded enthusiastically and made to get back to the horses, but then paused and looked at Aramis. 

“What if only one of them is in there? What if the other one is still locked up? What if only Athos is in there and d’Artagnan has already been …?”

He stopped speaking, and looked down at the hand which had grabbed his arm. 

Aramis was frowning at it too, but he didn’t withdraw his hand. Instead he nodded up at the carriage, which had almost reached the end of the line of trees, then back to Treville, who was being steered back towards the palace by the carriage guards. 

“Everything about what we just witnessed tells me that the carriage is important to Treville, therefore it is imperative that we must follow it.” 

As Aramis withdrew his hand he added, “We are so short of options that any little touch of luck we get must be held dear.”

Porthos watched Aramis walk off then he put his hand over the place on his arm where Aramis’ had lain. 

“You’re not wrong there,” he muttered to himself.


End file.
